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Lassoed In Love

Chapter 2 || Masterlist || Chapter 4

Chapter Summary: Clark drives you home and reveals a dark detail about himself. You have to wonder if it's true...you get hints about how nosey and prejudice the town can be.

Pairing: Farmer!Clark Kent X Teacher!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Sex In This Chapter), Slowburn, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Prison Conviction, Violation of Privacy, Debating Parenting.

Word Count: 3k

Author Notes: Sorry for publishing almost 2hrs late. I have been battling a bad case of influenza and just woke up. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Also, please remember this is a purely fictional story. I like to specify that it's important to believe and trust people who claim to be victims of abuse, just because someone treats you kindly doesn't mean they don't have the potential to harm you too. If anyone tells you they've raped someone or done time for rape even if they weren't guilty, always stay vigilant! Stay safe! Preferably stay away! Lassoed in Love is specifically fiction and Clark Kent's accused convictions are false.

Inspiring Song: "Monster" by Imagine Dragons

“Can you be at my house at six thirty? Or would you rather I come here? I am unsure how late the bus runs or if there’s a taxi service in Smallville.”

You both moved to leave her room, walking down the hall, back to the living room, near the kitchen.

“I’ll come to your house,” Lara suggested, “You’re near the town right? I might need to...I reckon dad’s getting no where with your car. I can see him out there shaking his head.”

Veering into the kitchen, you went to wash your hands in the sink, the blood that had dried over them washed clean away in the soap suds.

“Do you know where Ms. Gwendolyn-Lee lived?”

She thought for a moment, “Oh yea...wait...you look like her a bit.”

“She was my great great aunt. I inherited the house,” You peered out the kitchen window, “Shouldn’t your father be back by now?”

She grit her teeth and sucked in a breath, she stood briefly out of the kitchen to look at the mesh fly screen door. She popped her head back into the kitchen and said calmly, “Here he comes now.”

As he trudged up to the porch, he carefully stomped his muddy boots, scraping off the excess dirt before he swung open the door. His deep navy gaze swept over his daughter, then turned towards you. His eyes widened subtly as he took in the sight of his old flannel shirt on your body, but he refrained from making any comment about it.

“Get your things together,” he instructed. “I managed to hook your car up, got it out of the gulley, but I doubt there’s much to be done, I might suggest it’s scrap metal now.”

His dark face was expressionless, as usual, but you sensed that he’d made up his mind and wouldn’t budge.

Clark looked at his daughter. “Have you said what you wanted to her?”

You nodded and looked to Lara.

“Yes, she did.” Lara met her father’s eyes squarely. “She’s going to tutor me. I’m going to try to get into the military, take a ASVAB test and apply to be a diesel mechanic or even engineer.”

His eyes widened again. Lara appeared nervous with the way her hands balled and unfurled at her sides.

“It’s your choice. Just be sure you’re confident, knowing what you’ll be getting into.”

“I have to try.”

Clark nodded once, his firm gaze indicating the conversation had ended there. You turned to bid farewell to Lara, your gesture was met with her shy wave back. Following her father out onto the dirt path lining the side of the road, you couldn’t help but acknowledge the hint of concern in his words.

There, just off the path stood your car, hooked onto a tow bar at the back of his rusty blue truck, your cars crushed bonnet bearing testament to your recent misadventure.

He had done so much for you, rescuing you from a potentially hazardous situation, providing comfort, and now, he was even helping to tow your car. Additionally, he had kissed you in a manner that left your senses reeling. You couldn’t help but acknowledge that Clark was indeed a formidable individual.

Your cheeks grew hot as you recalled the memory of those searing kisses, their fiery intensity still lingering in your memory. Never in your life had you been so forward with a man, and the thought of your unconventional actions left you feeling both mortified as equally aroused.

You hastily clambered into the passenger seat of the pickup truck, your movements lacking any semblance of grace as you tried to maintain a proper, respectable demeanor. You fidgeted with your hands, clasping them primly in your lap, while your feet remained side-by-side, neatly placed on the floorboard. When Clark rejoined you in the vehicle and settled into the driver’s seat, you bit your lip, but his gaze didn’t so much as flicker in your direction, leaving you to grapple with your own embarrassment.

He casted a sardonic look after turning on the engine. “I can’t just drop you off at some random house lady. Where do you live?”

You realised sheepishly that you had been lost in the memory of Clark’s intimate kisses. You found yourself acutely aware of every movement, as the strong muscular expanse of his thigh shifted against yours, the heat of his skin palpable even through the thick denim of his well-worn jeans. Your noted that you were sitting in the middle of the seat, with very little space between you, it made you feel strangely constricted and breathless. The proximity to him was both overwhelming and exhilarating.

“Down Crow Street first house on the right,” you said hastily, and slid over by the window.

“Ms. Gwendolyn-Lees house?” he murmured.

You nodded.

Clark couldn’t deny that he relished the feeling of your presence beside him, the way your body gently brushed against his arm and leg with every gear change. However, despite the undeniable attraction and comfort he found in your proximity, he didn’t verbalize his appreciation. He acknowledged that things had spiralled out of control earlier, but he made a conscious choice to prevent any further escalation. At present, Lara’s situation occupied his thoughts, and her well-being overshadowed any personal desires or distractions, even for your warm body into his arms.

Clark’s voice dropped to a low, velvety tone that sent a chilling shiver down your spine, as you could discern the undercurrent of menace in his words. He continued, “The Army... it’s a tough climb for a girl, regardless of how much they claim to be feminist-friendly these days. There are those waiting to step on her toes and push her around at every opportunity. I don’t want Lara to getting hurt because you want to play miss goody-two-shoes.”

His eyes may have been solidly on the road, but you could see how they were filled with anguish, confusion and fear all at once. He chewed his pink lips and whispered something under his breath. He was fearsomely protective of his daughter even from you.

Clark’s attempt to intimidate you fell flat as you defiantly turned to face him, your eyes ablaze with defiance. You matched his intense gaze with unwavering determination and challenged his accusations with a spirited fervour.

“Mr. Kent,” you asserted with a resolute lift of your chin, “I never promised Lara that she would be guaranteed a military career upon completion of her studies. She fully acknowledged that fact. However, her academic standing should be more than sufficient for consideration, provided she enrols back into school to earn her diploma and fulfil the necessary credit requirements. That is the offer I made to her: a chance.”

His hands tightened on the wheel.

“And if she doesn’t make it? If she fails?”

“She wants to fix automobiles, Mr. Kent. Even if she isn’t accepted, at least she’ll know she tried, and she’ll have a decent qualifying diploma for the future.”

“So she can do exactly what she would have done without the diploma. You know what I call that? Fancy toilet paper.”

You rolled your eyes and gagged, “Mr. Kent, I believe you may be undermining your daughter’s true potential. She has demonstrated remarkable intellect and maturity for her age. On Monday, I plan to reach out to my network of contacts within the military community for further information on the necessary qualifications and requirements, including AFQT score prerequisites.” You held up a finger and wagged it a little, “Rest assured that I am fully committed to exploring every possible avenue to help your daughter achieve her aspirations.”

Wagging your finger at him? Oh, if you were his women, oh how he would’ve pulled over and belted and fucked you on the bonnet of his pick up, stark and cold in the middle of the afternoon.

He swallowed hard, trying to fight the sudden hard on growing in his jeans. He needed to scare you away. He couldn’t let himself see you again, even if it ruined Lara’s chances.

“The people in town won’t appreciate you tutoring her. They’ll gossip.”

You snorted, gossip? Why should you even care? “Why? Because their incompetence allowed a high achieving student to sliip through their fingers? Just let me handle them, Mr. Kent.”

He sighed long and hard, shaking his head a little. He pursed his lips and fell silent.

With the journey nearing its end, the dirt path road stretched out in front of you, its length having seemed endless moments ago. Clark remained silent as he navigated the remainder of the route, leaving you no choice but to respect the silence that enveloped the vehicle. Your mind raced with thoughts and emotions, a myriad of unresolved issues swirling in the wake of his words. The old house where you resided materialized on the horizon. As the vehicle rolled to a halt, its engine purring to a standstill, the silence persisted, the air thick with unspoken tension and lingering questions.

He quickly turned off his engine and looked up the road at the other houses in the neighbourhood, praying no one would see you both. His hands were still clenching the steering wheel. A deep worrisome sigh left his lips, he broke the silence with a calm warning, “It’s not just about Lara. If you want to ensure your own well-being, I suggest you refrain from speaking to anyone about our encounter. I’ll take the liberty of transporting your car to Frank’s auto repair, see what he can do. However, it would be wise to resist the urge to tell anyone about this, us, meeting.”

“Why?” You said in disbelief.

Clark faced you fully and leant forward slightly as if he was about to tell you a hilariously dirty joke...he smile and said a little too whimsically, “Because lady, I’m an ex-con. I did time for rape.”

The thumping jump your body made against his door while you scrambled for the car handle latch was obvious. He continued to sinister smirk, his brows raised as he waved you goodbye. Your throat felt impossibly dry. Your mind a tad dizzy.

You left the vehicle without uttering a word in response to his bold statement, silently cursing yourself afterward for your lack of a fitting comeback. His words had struck you to your core, leaving you momentarily stunned and unable to react. Rape! The very thought filled you with a deep sense of revulsion and disbelief. Your mind couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that you had kissed him, and the realization left you feeling shaken to the core. Finally, you hastily bid him farewell and informed him that Lara would be arriving at three thirty on Monday, before hastily disappearing into the house. You tried not to feel guilty when you made sure to lock the door behind you. He had helped you after all. He had pulled you out of your own car....but he had also indulged and kissed you. If Lara had not come...would he have....

As the hour ticked by, reality gradually sank in, and you found yourself standing alone in the antiquated kitchen, observing your cat Oz devouring his wet and dry food with relish from its gleaming silver bowl. You couldn’t help but reflect on the man and his outlandish claim, feeling a surge of defiance rising within you. You scoffed outwardly, muttering to yourself, “What complete nonsense! If that man is truly a rapist, I swear I’ll...I’ll...roast you for Thanksgiving, Oz.”

The ginger feline looked remarkably unconcerned. After all, he was just a lazy fat cat. Did he even know what thanksgiving was? You appreciated his lack of reaction, as if it confirmed your judgement being almighty and wise.

The realization that Clark had not unequivocally confessed to rape gave you pause. He had stated that he had served time in prison for rape, a revelation that seemed to open the door to a myriad of ambiguities. The perplexity deepened as you recalled Lara’s accounts of her outcasted and ignored existence. This notion puzzled you as to why Clark would have been granted custody of his daughter if the charges held any truth. Despite the uncertainty surrounding the matter, one thing was certain: your instincts whispered vehemently that Clark was innocent.

The man who had saved you from a life-threatening situation, gently cleansing your wounds with his tender touch and soothing your aching head with the coolness of an ice pack, had also bestowed upon you a kiss filled with a warmth that seeped into your very being. His actions stood in stark contrast to those of a man capable of causing harm to a woman. It was he who had halted the tender exchange of kisses between you, even as you had willingly surrendered yourself to his embrace.

It seemed utterly ridiculous to even entertain the notion that he could be a rapist. True, it may not have taken much restraint on his part to halt the intimate exchange of kisses, given that you weren’t considered conventionally attractive and your inexperience. Yet, as you pondered the matter further, you couldn’t shake the memory of the undeniable physical response of his erection you had felt, a reaction which spoke volumes in its own right. Perhaps he’d simply been deprived of physical outlets for some time and you had unwittingly provided an opportunity, but there was still no hint of violence in his touch.

Perhaps Clark Kent was already aroused and you had unwittingly ignited a flame within him, to you his spark that lit up his desire would remain a mystery to you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t dispute the fact that he had not abused his position or forcibly taken advantage of you. Except...What if he had?

As your heart raced with a powerful, rhythmic beat, an intense warmth pervaded your being. A throbbing, insistent ache manifested deep within you, causing your inner muscles to contract involuntarily. Without even thinking, your hand instinctively sought temporary relief under your skirt before, startled by your own actions, you pulled it away abruptly.

What if, instead of merely halting the kisses, he had taken the initiative to touch, cup, and caress you with his hands and mouth? The mere thought of this sent shivers of desire through you, leaving you feeling as if you were melting in response. Your mind raced with fantasies of his touch, and you found yourself involuntarily pressing your thighs together, desperate for relief from the profound ache that consumed you. A low, involuntary whimper escaped from your lips, startling the cat resting nearby.

The question loomed in the air: would you have actually tried to halt his advances? Could you have summoned the strength to resist the allure of his touch? Or would you now be standing there, your body quivering with excitement as memories of shared passion consumed you instead of simply imagining it? Your body hummed with anticipation, stirred not from a place of true understanding but from the awakening of primal desires.

The intensity of the passion you had experienced had been utterly foreign to you, vastly different from the joyful hum in your bones you held for knowledge and teaching. Discovering that your body was capable of such powerful sensations was a harrowing realization, as you had long believed that you were not one to experience such grand arousal like others bragged about in your age group. You weren’t some kitten in heat, no, you were like a forest fire ready to burn the earth in pursue if the same touch Clark Kent had done to you. Now, your own flesh seemed to whisper secrets that left you feeling betrayed, and your thoughts and emotions danced to an unfamiliar tune. It was as if your very being had been transformed into something unfamiliar and intoxicating. Something wickedly beautiful.

In that moment, it became undeniable. Lust had consumed your very being, a sensation ignited by none other than Clark Kent himself. This realization was both marvellous and mortifying. The potency of your feelings was overwhelming, leaving you both astounded and humiliated by the depth of your desire.

On Monday, you made a hasty lunch break phone call to an old college friend who served in the air force to inquire about the process of making sure Lara’s studies would count towards her diploma. Despite your qualifications, there were still numerous forms to fill out before she could earn the necessary credits via private tutoring. You placed the call from the ancient pay phone in the underused teacher’s lounge, a cramped space that only held three chairs, a table, a mini-fridge, and a coffee maker. Surprisingly, Lana Lang, the eighth grade teacher, popped into the room as you were talking.

“Y/N, are you feeling ill or anything?”

“No, I’m alright.” You stood, “I was making a call.”

“Oh. I just wondered. You’d been in here alone for a while, and I thought you might not be feeling up to hall duty soon.... Who were you calling?”

The query had been posed without a trace of hesitation, reflecting the unfiltered openness characteristic of Smallville’s close-knit community. Lana, a local who had grown up in the heart of the town, had once held the title of prom queen. In this close-knit environment, secrets rarely remained hidden for long, and the exchange of personal information was a common occurrence. You felt unperturbed by Lana’s unabashed curiosity, as you were already accustomed to such directness within the confines of this intimate community, where small towns functioned as extended families. At first you found such things rude and personally invasive.

“An old college friend. I needed some information on teaching requirements.”

Lana’s expression turned to one of alarm as she spoke, “Are you questioning your qualifications? The school board will be absolutely distraught if there’s an issue. You have no idea how difficult it is to find a teacher with the proper credentials willing to move to such a small town. They were at the brink of panic before you agreed to take the job. Without your arrival, the children would be forced to commute over sixty miles each day just to receive an education.”

Or attend homeschooling like Lara Kent.

TO BE CONTINUED....

“Actually, it’s not that,” you quickly explained, seizing the opportunity to delve into your intentions. “I’ve been contemplating the idea of initiating private tutoring, as I believe it might benefit the children.” You deliberately refrained from mentioning Lara Kent, respecting her father’s request for discretion. Relief washed over Lana’s face as she concluded that the situation wasn’t dire.

“Thank goodness it isn’t bad news,” she sighed, waving goodbye and offering a smile before withdrawing her head from the room, her curiosity sufficiently quelled.

You sincerely hoped that Lana wouldn’t mention your plan to Beryl Braverman, the third-to-fifth grade teacher, but you couldn’t deny that the likelihood of secrecy was slim. Information had an uncanny way of propagating swiftly in Smallville, leaving little room for concealment. Lana exuded warmth and humor in her teachings, mirroring your laidback approach. However, Beryl’s strict demeanor and abruptness with students left you feeling unsettled. You had overheard rumblings about Beryl considering an early retirement. Despite her shortcomings, her departure would undeniably upset the local board, as Lana had previously pointed out - it was almost impossible to encourage new teachers to move to Smallville.

    HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[rarepears]

LMAO "HOMEWRECKER" SUPERMAN vs. "I'm protecting the sanctity of my parents' relationship" Superboy

#i hate you sm#you didn't even give me a warning#sung jinwoo and lex luthor coparent connor kent au#i forgot to mention that lex bonding with connor means taking down business rivals within 24hrs#and jinwoo bondig with his son is teleporting to random ass chaos worlds and killing some monsters (growing the shadow army)#connor loves his parents (he thinks this is the reason why they love each other sm. very good in what they do)#(this screams competence kink)#also#sidekicks bragging about their mentors/parents and connor winning every time#'my father is a billionaire and practically owns metropolis' 'my dad could literally snap superman in half'#I HATE YOU SO SO MUCH#anne is out. @arkhammaid

Asian parent Sung Jinwoo: Joining the Justice League as a civilian intern would be good for your resume and college applications.

Lex: Or I could just donate a building to Harvard.

Connor: college?!?! Connor: Harvard?!?!

Sung Jinwoo: Education is very important young man. I never got the opportunity to finish school. Kids these days don't understand how privileged they are-

Connor is already lucky enough that Sung Jinwoo thought about but gave up on the idea of Connor learning the piano or any sort of musical instrument.

Sung Jinwoo would be the strict(er) parent. Beru is the fun parent. Lex is... Lex. Lex is the one figuring out how the chores in the house will get done (aka what cleaning service to use, how often to have things cleaned, etc.) and is the one feeding people. Sung Jinwoo forgets to eat because he grew up poor and skipping meals so Jinah could eat more (plus Gates don't exactly have much edible food). Connor still needs his special diet.

What else... Oh! Superboy gets caught on camera arriving to the scenes in socks, no shoes. Sometimes he's in too much of a rush that he's wearing his house slippers as opposed to proper footwear when it comes to saving the world again.

I got a plotbunny for you @arkhammaid: Sung Jinwoo and Lex Luthor one Connor Kent Luthor-Sung.

[hogwartsfirebolt]

It began, as most things in Harry’s life did, with a chase.

The first time, he caught him near a tramway station in Bristol, subdued him with an off-handed flick of his wand, pressed the delicate bones of his wrist against his lower back. He’d been looking for him for a year, by then.

“I won’t tell you where I planted it,” Malfoy told him, it being the Spike Bomb. He was alone, helpless, pressed against the wall, and yet he sounded amused.

“I’ve already disabled it,” Harry grumbled, pressing harder with his thumbs, ready to crack Malfoy’s bones. Nearly craving it.

“Oh, have you?”

“Yes, now you’re coming with —”

The bomb went off with a blinding shockwave.

Malfoy escaped, and Harry was thrown back to square one, empty-handed.

The second time, a month later, he caught him in Kent, boarding a train to France.

“Are you joking? Right now?” Malfoy asked when he spotted him. Soon enough, his hands were magically bound in front of him. “Couldn’t you have done this earlier? Or maybe once I’d gotten to Coquelles? Now we’re stuck here for an hour.”

“Yeah, well, enjoy the ride. I’m taking you to Azkaban as soon as we’re back in London.”

Inexplicably, Malfoy smiled. “But then how would you know where I planted the Spike this time?”

Harry frantically apparated to the location and disabled the bomb. Malfoy escaped.

The third time he caught him, it was in a high-end hotel in Berlin.

“Fuck, I haven’t gotten around to planting it yet,” Malfoy said when Harry materialized next to him, in the lush, fragrant bathroom. He was taking a bubble bath. “Can I finish my bath?”

After he did, Harry slipped unplottable cuffs onto his wrists.

“I’m hungry,” Malfoy said. Harry allowed him to order room service, had to feed him the sandwich he’d bought once it arrived, because he refused to free his hands. “Is this erotic? I feel like it is,” he added, licking crumbs off Harry’s thumb.

The bomb went off right then, the pulse of energy so powerful and unexpected that it left Harry reeling, crouched by the empty chair Malfoy had occupied moments before.

The fourth time he caught him, in a small cottage in Drenthe, he had him handcuffed before Malfoy had the chance to say anything,

“I don’t have time for your games today, Malfoy,” he whispered in his ear, low. Malfoy’s clean scent washed over him. He felt him shudder against his chest.

“I swear this keeps getting more erotic each time,” he murmured, still shivery. Then, sounding genuinely sorry, “It’s a bit late, though, it will go of in...”

The bomb went off.

The fifth time, Harry found him lying in bed in muggle accommodations in Milan, naked.

“There’s no bomb today. The trail I left was fake,” he said when Harry showed up.

“Why would you — ” he started, but cut off abruptly when Malfoy spread his legs. An odd feeling crawled down Harry’s spine. The movement was shameless, cheap. Harry felt himself growing hard.

The sixth time, inside a train to Bern, he had Malfoy’s pants down to his ankles forty seconds after finding him.

“No bomb?” He asked, pressing his palm to Malfoy’s spine, bending him further over the seat.

“It’s in — in the governor’s cabin. I haven’t. Merlin. I haven’t activated it,” he panted, hips working hard. Harry sped up.

The seventh time, Malfoy received him in his townhouse in London with a grin.

“I didn’t leave any trails this time.”

It was true.

“You still need to be caught.”

“Now that’s definitely erotic.”

“I truly don’t like you.”

“You don’t say that when you fuck me.”

Harry pushed him inside the house, secured the handcuffs around his wrists and took him against the door.

No bombs went off.

Written for @drarrymicrofic prompt “Caught.”

[the-lincyclopedia]

* adapted from @librajiminn on twitter

A fun game to celebrate 2020 ending! The rules are simple: recommend your favorite OMGCP fics so everyone can enjoy them, while trying to fill in enough slots to get a bingo!

This is going to get long, so I’ll put it under a cut. Also, I’m too orderly to try to shoehorn my favorite fics into these particular prompts, so I’m just going to go right to left, top to bottom, taking the prompts literally, until it’s bedtime. 

1. first fic you bookmarked: “Here Comes the Sun” by @doggernaut, 19k, G, no warnings, Zimbits

For the past month, the man with the baby and the sad blue eyes has been stopping in for a cup of coffee an hour before closing. He always sits in an overstuffed chair in the corner and drinks his coffee while his baby sleeps next to him in the stroller. Sometimes he pulls a book out from the diaper bag he carries with him; other times he just stares straight ahead as if in a daze. He never asks for a refill, always respectfully gathers his things and leaves ten minutes before the shop officially closes. Eric desperately wants to ask him what his story is. 

My notes: I read Check Please over the course of two days in June of 2019. On the second day, right after catching up, I looked at @peppermintfeminist‘s AO3 bookmarks and found a fic by @doggernaut. Then I read just about everything @doggernaut had ever posted. It was glorious. This fic in particular is so cute. 

2. most recent fic you bookmarked: “Flight Check” by @edgarallanrose, 15k, E, no warnings (though there is a creepy/handsy guy at a club to watch out for), primarily Zimbits with most of the other popular pairings in the background

Flight attendant Eric “Bitty” Bittle has been working his way up at Samwell Airlines for the past four years, and his new promotion has provided him the opportunity to work with a brand-new crew. Unfortunately for Bitty, that crew includes an incredibly handsome but equally grumpy pilot, Captain Jack Zimmermann, who seems to want nothing to do with Bitty. Even worse, Jack refuses to eat any of Bitty's baked goods. Will Bitty be able to win the captain over? Or is there another reason Jack has been avoiding Bitty?

My notes: There are a lot of great things about this fic--Jack’s character arc, Lardo’s dialogue, that scene in Seattle--but the reason I bookmarked it is the scene where Bitty’s basically slut-shaming himself and Jack gently but firmly tells Bitty not to do that and that it was the creep’s fault. 

3. a fic that made you cry actual tears: “a little bit more” by @ivecarvedawoodenheart, 14k, T, no warnings, Holsom

“I just wanted,” he says, “a perfect day. With you. Because it’s our last day together and our last day being here as undergrads and we’re kissing the ice tonight, and the weather’s supposed to be beautiful, and you’re moving tomorrow and Holtzy I just — I don’t want to be missing you already.” Holster wipes his eyes before he even realizes he’s crying. Behind him, Ransom sighs. “One more day where everything’s the same,” he says, feeling around blindly for Rans’ fingers. He feels Rans nod as he laces their fingers together. “Yeah. Yeah, Rans. I’d like that a lot.” __________________________

Holsom after graduation and throughout the subsequent six months after Holster signs to an expansion team in Oregon, and realizes his feelings for Ransom too late. Holster's POV :) kinda angsty, but there's a happy ending :)

Inspired by shitty-check-please-aus: "Holster moves to Oregon while Ransom stays on the east coast. The time difference makes it difficult to talk and one day they wake up and realize they aren’t best bros anymore."

My notes: I almost never cry at fics. I searched “tears” in my fandom email account and only a handful of my fic comments came up, but Syd is a literal master of Holsom angst, always. 

4. longest fic you’ve read: “Like Real People Do” by @xiaq, 153k, M, No Warnings, Kent Parson x OC

Parson gestures with his spoon toward Hawke. “So am I allowed to ask about the service dog or is that not PC?”

“My medical history is more of a 3rd date conversation," Eli says.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because. No one sticks around afterward and I like to live in glorious denial for a short period beforehand.”

It comes out more self-deprecating than he intended.

Parson looks…thoughtful. “Well, does this count as one or two?

“Pardon?”

“This. Ice cream. I mean, technically it’s a second location, but still the same night. So is this one date or two?”

“One,” Eli says firmly. “If it’s happening within the same three-hour period.”

“You’re the expert,” Parson says, which, he’s really, really, not, but ok.

“So still two dates to go then?” Parson continues.

“I—what?”

“We’ve got a roadie coming up but then we’re home for almost two weeks. When does your semester start?”

“You want to do this again?” Eli asks.

Parson stops idly twirling his spoon.

“You don’t?”

He does, Eli realizes. He really does. Because apparently he actually likes Kent fucking Parson.

My notes: Okay, this fic has my whole entire heart. I’ve read it multiple times in its entirety, and it’s almost twice as long as the full-length novel I’m querying. Eli is one of my favorite OCs I’ve ever seen in a fic (probably tied with Damian Navarro and Ari Paxton, both brainchildren of @fozmeadows). Anyway, this is probably going to be the next thing @themeaningoflifeischeese and I read out loud to each other. 

5. a fic you almost didn’t read: “when all else fails (i’ll still be right here)” by @whoacanada, 6k, T, Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings (and I don’t remember if I think there’s stuff to warn for, sorry), Zimbits

The National Hockey League is resurrecting the Quebec City Nordiques, and the expansion draft hits the Falconers much harder than expected.

My notes: Given that this was for @omgcpheartbreakfest, I was worried this would be all angst--all hurt and no comfort. Which made me sad, because I love @whoacanada‘s writing but I wasn’t up for reading unresolved angst. But @doggernaut reblogged the fic, so I asked if the ending was sad, and it’s NOT! There is quite a bit of angst but the ending isn’t sad. 

6. a fic that convinced you on a ship you didn’t ship before: “it drops with the gravity of rain” by @geniusorinsanity, 16k, T, Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings (attempted sexual assault by an OC), Nurseydex

It happens like this:

“I don’t--this is a bad idea,” Dex says, his lips still tingling, his hands shaking on Nursey’s hips where he’s shoved him away. “This is a really bad idea, Nurse. I can’t--We can’t do this.”

And there’s hurt in Nursey’s eyes and his bottom lip is swollen from Dex’s teeth, but he says, “Okay.” And then, “It’s chill, Dex. Just friends, then.”

It happens like this:

“Actually,” Nursey says, talking more to his granola than to them, “I kind of have a date.”

It happens like this:

When Nursey calls, Dex almost doesn’t pick up the phone.

My notes: So I was really confused and a little disturbed when I first found out people shipped Nursey and Dex. Like, Dex just wasn’t someone I trusted. But then I was moving out of the house I’d been living in, and I needed stuff to listen to as I packed and cleaned, and @khashanakalashtar‘s podfics came in clutch. I gave this one a try even though I didn’t like Dex, and @geniusorinsanity blew. My. Mind.

7. a fic from an unusual POV: “Excuse Me While I Kiss This Guy” by @porcupine-girl, 8k, G, no warnings, Zimbits

Jesse Snowden knows all the best restaurants and gourmet food shops in Providence, so when Jack Zimmermann starts bringing in incredible baked goods, he's eager to find out where the new bakery is. When he meets the man behind the pies, he decides that there's no way Jack could really appreciate this guy's talent the way he does, even if they are friends. He starts hiring Jack's chef on the side, in the hopes that maybe once Bitty's done with college he'll come work for Jesse.

Good thing there is absolutely no way whatsoever that Jesse could possibly be misinterpreting this situation.

My notes: Oh my gosh this is so funny. The secondhand embarrassment factor is huge, but like, the hilarity. 

8. a comfort fic: “Don’t Need to Compromise” by @khashanakalashtar, 11k, E, no warnings, PB&J

“Hey,” said Kent, unknowingly setting off a chain of events that would change his entire life, “you said that like you know from experience. Have you done this before?”

Jack and Bitty have not done polyamory before, but they do know Ransom and Holster’s polycule, which contains March.

And March?

March is trans.

My notes: I’m in love with @khashanakalashtar‘s entire Directionverse series (and honestly a lot of their other writing), but “Don’t Need to Compromise,” which is the second fic in the series, just makes my heart swell especially much. The gender feels are so good, and all the characters are so good to each other, and when I listen to this on walks I have to actively try not to arm-flap. 

9. a fic you wish could be a movie: “Ice Crew Please!” by @petals42, 61k, T, no warnings, Zimbits

Jack Zimmermann was drafted first by the Providence Falconers when he was eighteen years old. He is good at hockey. Very good. His team won the Cup his second year and now, in his third year, they are looking good. Jack should be on top of the world. And some days, he manages to convince himself he is.

He’s not, of course.

Enter the Ice Crew.

AKA: The Ice Crew AU

My notes: This fic has its tender moments, but what I love most about it is the sheer goofiness. Ransom and Holster and Shitty are HILARIOUS in this one. I’d love to see their shenanigans in movie form. 

10. a WIP you read as it was updated: “Something Borrowed” by @fozmeadows, 48k, M, no warnings, Kent x OC

All things considered, Ari did his best to prepare himself for the advent of Kent Parson, Potentially Difficult Housemate and New Star Liney. The problem was that his best was an idiot.

My notes: So technically I didn’t start reading this until the first 19 chapters were posted. But there was still plenty of anticipation for the final few chapters. And like, @fozmeadows (as mentioned above) makes EXCELLENT OCs. And I love how their fics consistently convey that having bad things happen to you does not mark the end of your story. 

Okay, it’s bedtime, so have 10 excellent fics. I got bingo twice, because I went straight across on the top two rows.

[denotday]

Maybel Rhodes: Protectress

Itchy arms. My armbumps bumps take over life and chew my head off like a black mother. Even the sleeves of this sweater craddle these potholes as an english muffin craddles butter. But I'm more than my bumps and I'd make a quip on Fergie, but I'm no Joan Rivers. I'm small, meager. At eighteen, trying to find myself, live my own life. Typical teen drama, boring narrative, sob story. bored already. But know what isn't boring? I like strawberry shortcake and cheeseless pizzas. I have hopes of becoming a journalist and actually leading a career as moreof a Clark Kent than a Mary Jane or whatever the fuck that bitch's name is. Mary Anne? That used to be the name of one of my teachers. Going off; just thinking these thoughts while skateboarding to highschool.

Stay on the sides, away from cars, on the sidewalk, not too close to the white kids. White kids mean white mess, white messes mean cops who sweep the streets and take all the black kids with them in the process. I'm not a racist, just a black kid trying to stay alive in white america. Thank god I'm a weak bitch, one who cries for black men, one who doesn't face real issues like projected aggression. I'm a butterfly, something that men swat away and don't care about until MeToo movements. Gotta be careful but not too careful, kind but not too kind, firm but not a bitch, bitch but not a faggot. faggots suck.

No one thinks to ask these questions, here this thoughts. They see a black woman, better yet, a black female child. Worse thing to live in a ghetto. Sike; I say that I'm black and in a ghetto and get sob points. Fucking racist. I'm skating to one of those Fresh Prince schools. Didn't move on up, I'm simply moving; parents are mid class well grounded and guess what? My parents are still together. Probably breaking up soon but still breaking barriors of broke baby daddies and black slutty whore mothers who don't believe in abortion.

That's humor in of itself. A black kid skates into a white neighborhood with white sidewalks and doesn't have a nigger daddy and nigger mommy. What can be said by those PTA suburban soccer moms who want to demonise me and my own? Or am I palatable and a token black?

Making good grades, going to class on time. Only thing is, I don't have any friends to call. Even if I had one of those top quality iPhone 411s, I still wouldn't want to burden myself with filling up those high-techy contact lists. It's all bullshit after all, just capitalistic bilge. Something to fill the void without actually trying to let the public know that the void they're filling chalks up to capitalism. But again, those little tangents? "What does this have to do with having friends?" Everything. I don't give a shit, I accept shit. I tell things like it is, speak with lisps or change it up by sounding like an oxford professor.Not going to just abandon stream of consciousness 'cause class just started. This aint sims 4 and life ain't something that can be controlled; sped up or slowed down for the sake of an other's pleasure. I'm learning about shit that I'll never use like economics. That's shit that the government gives the state to teach, a little but not enough for highschoolers to overwhelm the system and decide "fuck student loans".

Not too bad here, though. Not all just "fuck hyschool" and teenaged angst. I go to the library, read books, go on my computer, listening to some Biggie and MFDoom and Tribe. Guess I am a nigger. Nigger-me and my nigger music. Even tththough it's they inspiration for they cracker music. Hate on us enough to keep us down but keep us up enough to steal from us. Today I'm reading some teen dystopian fantasy novel that I don't feel inclined to share with you guys. And no, it's not Hunger Games. It's Gunger Hames, the cousin of the franchise. Whoops just gave ya'll the name sorry. Either way I'm into that. Idea of a not-so-distant-future; humans making mistakes that fuck up the planet---disregarding that fact long enough so that the white main character can get it on with someone from the other side. Modern day Romeo and Juliett.

End of lunch, going back to class. It's back to back all day; boring teen shit that nobody cares about. Raising hands, answering questions, not understanding anything by the end of the day. Getting by is my motto. Long enough to get an A in the class and be on those ivy league watchlists. Even if I have to bust my ass to pay for student loans. Leaving highschool after all that non-work---no friends to lie to, no one to walk with, just me and my skateboard. These white paths not dirtied by brown except for my dirt body moving at the speed that a skateboard will go. Shift right here and there. Move away from rocks so that I don't fall headfirst. It's good shit. Here and there there are stone pebbles, blunts from---ironically enough--- the white kids and sharp object that I can't identify. FUCK. I don't have time to move around it and I can't just run offf. My leg'll get cut by it. Gotta just build up enough speed to roll over. Rolling...rolling...here it comes. Crouch down, focus, focus, pump speed anddddd....it stops my speed and loosens one of my bearings. Now I gotta walk the rest of the way back to my white little house with a white picket fence. Man screw--haha pun---this object. I have to use my 20/20 vision to find some small silver bolt that'll practically blend in with this bright ass sidewalk. Fuck white America.

In a little patch of weeds growing like black fists raising in the air I see the bolt and the responsible party for tossing me off the board. I raise my foot to crush this sonnofabiscuit like a bug so that some white kid's bike tire doesn't get licked---mind you this should be considered community service---and I figure that I won't ruin my rubber soles on the glass, so I'll just pick it up and toss it into the sewer. I put the bolt in my sweatpants pocket to keep it safe. I bend over again to peer at the crack in the sidewalk that I'll punt to the other side of the street where the other half of the street lives. It has tribal markings on it and must be, gasp, an ancient arcane ruin that'll give me superpowers. Kidding, you dumb bitch. "Why am I talking to myself this way? Jeez, some self-improvement classes would be nice". It's a bracelet made of some sort of beads. Kindof pretty but caked up with dirt and sand like no-one's business. I'm no Rocket Racoon so I just leave it. Even if I felt that it was interesting enough, I'd have to clean it off and disinfect it. It would just ruin the material underneath. Hm. Hm. Hm. Hm. Hm. Hm. Lemme stop; for real, in this white bread neighborhood, I might be able to get it appraised and pawn it off for some money or at the very least, see if it's worth keeping. I know; "this is the start of every horror movie", every tv show. I get it, but I'll cleanse the jewelry before wearing it. It's fine. It's fine. Hope it's fine. Jeez.

I put the bracelet in my other pocket away from the bolt and walk back home. The soles of my feet hit the white pavement and my feet move in the fashion of jubillee ferris wheels. Slowly rise in a circle, fall in perfect arch. Walking is divine poetry in of itself. Not too long now. A little further. Feels like the day is stretching. Still light outside and the summer-brink of fall--air is warming my rectum. "Oh god, what's with gays and their rectums". You know your g-spot is in your ass, men. It feels good for us too you know. Nice coolness for the butthole----rectum is for men, butthole is for women. I think. See? Not a Cliff Huxtable type; don't know everything. Not an Urkle. Conversations with myself like this are truly golden (ponyboy).

Fondle the silver piece, twist it in lock, get somewhere new. Novel design, simple concept. My rubber soles give me cat-walking abilities and I edge up the stairs. Hear shuffling downstairs in the kitchen. But the smell of musky forest wood with a hint of olive tells me that it's just my father. I'd announce my presence but this isn't a sitcom and I have a phone that I can use to text. Who talks nowadays?

On the table near the keyrack, I scoop into my pockets in search of the goods. The warm cotton touches the cool silver bolt. Set it aside to attach it to the skateboard later. "Why not now?" That'll be a problem for me to solve tomorrow. "Procrastination isn't good" Yeah I know. I've read the same 1990's health pamphlet that the health teachers give out. I hug my side to reach around for the other pocket. Same warmth, same feeling of comfort except...it's a new sensation. Hollow and porous. It's either bone carved into beads or plastic. Hope to...Well, not God, maybe I hope to goodness? Goodness? What am I? A preacher? Maybe that's why I like 16 year old boys. Anyway. It's too white over here for it to be bone. Unless it's some cracker who brought over some hoodoo shit and dropped it somewere. Great. Gonna burn some incense to cleanse it. Then gonna toss it somewhere so that it can't hurt anyone. Wait. It doesn't FEEL menacing. No darkness, no coldness, there's a comfort to be had. I don't see any visible engravings, no bite marks no arcane symbols. It may be safe. Just to be sure, I'm keeping it downstairs for it to curse someone else in the house. I rise up the stairs into the wide landing. Step, rise, step, rise, step, rise. Before I get to the top, I feel funny. Not sick funny or CURSED funny, but someone-is-in-my-presence funny. Strech my neck to look over my shoulder. Not too far to show interest but far enough to see what's going on---it's my dad handling the bracelet.

I whip my body around and I suppose this gives him a start.

"Hey, just got back from school. I'm pretty tired which is why I didn't want to talk. Found that bracelet in the sidewalk cracks before my skateboard broke. I wouldn't touch it if I were you. Don't know if it's cursed or not."

"Cursed? Bee, this is a genuine Sudanese artifact."

"Huh? When'd you turn into a archeologist? Or are you just nerding out about a 'special interest'"

"Har har. Nothing like that. This area used to be an auction town for slaves shipped from Sudan. Martinsville, Pennsylvania wasn't necessarily known for it's 'clean hands' you know. Gentrification made the area look nicer but its history is still pretty shit-covered."

"Ah, I remember now. I heard about this in history class" No I haven't. I don't even have history. Just want to stop talking to him about some dumb bracelet. "Can it sell for big bucks at a pawnshop?"

"I mean, sure if you'd like to get rid of it. Better to give it to the local museum though! It looks to me like it's made out of elephant tusks. Pretty well preserved too! The wearer must've been some warrior. They only wear these types of jewelry if they're the village's protectors. That's what I've read online anyway. You know how the interweb is though. Could be false."

"Oh wow. Ivory? That's a pretty dirty trade. Don't want to give something like that up to white people who continue to promote the trade. This'll just make the ivory market worse. I may keep it; I just wonder if it's cursed or something. I'll ask a local witchcraft practitioner to check it out tomorrow. Can I have thirty bucks for an appraisal along with an after-school snack?"

"Thirty? What're you going to buy? A salmon dinner with asparagus and steak? I'm not giving you Carabbas money. I can do 18. Enough for some street food."

"Not enough for the appraisal!"

"I'm sure the person will be able to work something out for you. You look twelve. You can play the 'Uwu I'm a baby who has no money, please help me out adult!' card. Or, how about this: pretend to be doing a research project for school on Sudanese slaves in the area. Just act like the school lent you the bracelet for the project"

"So lie?"

"I call it embellishment."

"I see"

I reached into his calloused palm and stole its contents, As a thief, I ran upstairs away from the site of the crime, away from the demons that lurked beneath the stairs. That's customary practice when going up stairs, right? To haul ass like there's no tomorrow like we're that black chick from Scary Movie? Sounds about right. I heaved and ho'd swinging my body back and forth up the stairs. Snaking my way into my room where I burrow for my after-school nap. That's what I tell my parents anyway. What I really do is blaze up in my room and turn on the fan. Gotta keep the smoke minimal. "Such a typical teen". Yeah, whatever. Like your generation wasn't popping ass and drinking bathtub wine when ya'll were young, Get outta here.

It's a good high. Kind where you'd listen to lofi and eat peanuts just for the fun of it. Another bong hit. Satisfying. I'm just leaning back on my sofa; it's firm and uncomfy but when I'm blazed, don't none of it matter. I could lose all of my words...give up....let....go.....

"...."

"What is this energy I'm feeling? So warm and electric. Is this love? Am I so sexually frustrated that I'm in love with a bong? Shit, I fuck with that. That's pretty words. 'I'm in love with my bong'. Such nice love. haha."

I'm hungry and it's four am. The weed has worn off. So tired man. Gotta go downstairs for some chips or something. Hungry to the max. Munchies munchies munchies for the weed monster. What a drug.

I creep down the stairs and up once more. My bare footpads cling to the hardwood and leave sweat prints in the shape of my stompers. During my ascent I leave crumbs. Have the house feeling like a Brother's Grimm story. I satisfy my snack desires as I prepare for school in the next hour.

Running water on my arms. Three passes of lotion on arms and legs. Can't be the ashy black kid that look like they an African living in a dirt house. Ain't able to help the rough patches that coat my body but I can help keep my skin moisturized.

A'ight. Got my fit got my board. Just have to screw the bolt back on and find the bracelet. Shit. Left it upstairs. I'm already late as hell. Rushing up the stairs. Search for the bracelet, find it, get out house. Objectives objectives. I spot it from afar and gravitating toward it, put it gingerly in my pocket. Kindof like someone would with a used tissue. Aren't humans gross? I mean, snot? Bacteria-filled snot? Nasty. Thoughts gone, make brain go from thinking to doing. descending now. Board in arm, door opens with the flick of the wrist and just like that, I'm outty. Deck on ground I put my best foot forward and ram it onto the hard cement to push myself forward. Sorry foot, betrayals sure do suck.

School begins, in class siting in a chair. All day, several hours. Ah, the beloved system at work. Great to know that there are adults who "work" all day by keeping kids seated in a chair. Very progressive, America. Library break? I think so. On my laptop, I pull out webpages on the pocketed---the word reminds me of 'closeted---bracelet. NOW I'm imagining a gay bracelet. hilarious. Great. Typing 'Gay Bracelet' into the search bar and am getting rainbow plastic bands. Ya know, the ones that they sell at Hot Topic during pride month.

"Damn, I'm getting sidetracked" She mutters to herself. Imagine if life were a story being told by some omnipotent force? omnipresent? Think that's the word.

With a bit of typing and a bit of focus. Swift movement of hunched fingers. All is complete, then some. Ogdle: "common of the Azande warriors were pieces to signify their status such as septum tusks, mouth disks, necklaces and other adornments. Bones and tusks were common materials of such articles."

Crazy how this history is hidden. Power was taken from us and buried so deep. We're the originals but every piece of history buried underground. Hidden, secretive Big Bad America. Tale fit for young people all over. Democracy, boo yah.

Train whistle blowing through the air. No train nearby, just the sound of a change in the block. I put it all away, sweep it into my bag. Everything is so messy, so fast. On schooldays like this, it feels hard to even take time to breathe. But I get by since the system wants me to. Think I'm going to skip. Not that the next two classes even matter in the long run. "Such a poor black baby, representing her race so poorly". Yeah yeah. Not the black chick that highschools would put on a recruiting card.

Just another push....door after door falling at my fingertips. The same once that touch the coarse sandpaper of my board. Foot on, foot off. kick once, twice, thrice, now we surf the cement. Now it's time to visit good the kind old black woman who practices witchcraft on dolls. That's what you'd think right? No, they're native and keep old customs within the community. Everyone calls them---agender--- Sage. Nonbinary native americans are actually more common than people think.

Before selling the bracelet to some old rich white drudge of society, I wanna be sure that the bracelet can be cleansed first. I mean. To give away black history to the white man? Hellll no with multiple "l's". It is a pretty long ride there, even on a board. Rumbly road. Pebbles everywhere. Thousands of little rocks acting as smaller wheels vying to fling me off. It's too much.

Mumbling of my own. "Where's gentrification when you need it?" Alright, yes I get it. It's a bad joke. Of course gentrification is bad. Blah blah. Time to pick up my skateboard I guess. Walking on this ground feels just as bad as suicide. Feaful of getting my ass flung into the afterlife. Few yards left....or at least fifty feet. Forty eight, forty five, forty-however-long.

Ended up reaching it after twenty minutes. This trip better be worth it.

"Hi there, Miss Sage. Mind checking out this bracelet for me? I need to check it for a curse or evil energy. My cheap father didn't give me enough for a full appraisal but what can you do with nine dollars?"

"For nine? Not much, doll? What was your name again? You look young, do you have an adult's approval for this?"

"Oh, right. You've got me. It's for a school project. School each student a historical object to research. I figured you'd be able to help me get an 'A' on the project, you know?"

"Your manners are lacking but you seem young, so I'll let you pass. Allow me to take a look at it, if you please?"

God. Full-fledged adults really are something else. I'm only eighteen, not eight. Guess I look younger than I am----

Sage starts burning this wood that's tied with string. Incense maybe?

"That incense?"

"It's a closed practice really, so I don't want to expose anything. But it is a form of incense that I prefer to use to cleanse the spirit of objects and areas."

"Ah, didn't mean to intrude. I'm glad that there are still practices that you keep to yourself. Nothing like the White Man stripping us of our culture."

I got a soft chuckle out of them. Glad that they're able to lighten up a bit.

"..."

"OK, so here's what I've found. There's immense energy here; the power coming off of this thing is tremendous. There's nothing negative about this piece. How'd you ever come across it, again? School, you said? Shame that you'll have to give it back. Something like this would provide a large power surge to spirituals. I'd pay a pretty penny for this."

"Mhm"

"Wonder how the school even came across this. I tell you what. Ask your school where I can find something like this and perhaps I'll give you a little something for your intel, huh?"

"Oh. Sure. I'll just--uh---"

"Right, right, right. The bracelet, I'm sorry. Really, it's more an anklet truly, but--ya know what? I'm sorry. Here ya go"

"...take it from ya. Thanks."

"No problem. Come back with more info on the anklet. That'll be your payment for my time"

Got 'caught in a lie it seems. Don't know how I'll snake my way out of this one.

"Brrrrrzzzzz"

Shit, it's five. My dad's probably looking for me.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter two:

" You skipped class? Bee, I know that you're better than this."

God moms bitch too much. Must be the nursing job coupled with her daily acting gigs that make her so aggro.

"I hear ya, mom. I just had some research to conduct after school..."

"Research? Which kind---?"

"The school kind. I don't know what else you want me to say. I'm sorry for skipping lasses. I got too overzealous and went in over my head. It won't happen again."

"Tskk. Better not. I know that I'm gone almost every hour of the day, but please give me a break, baby. Please just listen to your father and follow the rules. All I ask."

"Mhm, even though he-----you know what, nevermind. Am I dismissed? I have to write up today's school report to type"

Phew. Gonna hit the bong now to calm down from this encounter.

Fuck homework. .... ..... Mhm.

Five minutes passs. Fifteen, twenty. Maybe not minutes. hours? seconds? Time is too funny. With LEDs on, the vibe is fatallll. Still have to open a window to let out the smoke but gosh is this magical.

Mhm magic. Does it even exist? Doubt it. It's all science, right? ....

.....

Right. Like, this anklet. Not real power. Not real magic. Just something people believe in. Like God. It's all faith.

"So, theoretically, I could even put it on my person and nothing would even happen"

"And, so it begins"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT VOICE" and why am I screaming?

Get off, get off, get off! Something's dripping on me.

"Tears, they're tears"

Oh god, I fucked up. I knew that I shouldn't have smoked that much. Knew it'd bite me in the ass one day. Now I'm fear-crying. I NEVER FEAR CRY.

It's all a dream maybe. Go to sleep, Bee. Just take a weed nap.

"Ba ba bang"

A booming voice raspy from coffee withdrawal.

"Everything OK in there Bee? You're about to be late for school."

Shit!

No time for conversation. Move it move it move it.

"'Cmon Bee. I'll drop you off at school on my way to the college".

Bookbag? Check. Board? Check.

I feel the rush of air against my cheeks as I fly out the door and jump into the getaway car. Fast, but atleast I'm not Furious. Dad and I chat it up all the way until the tires cross the smooth pavement of school grounds. Departing words are exchanged along with "I love you's" and "knock 'em deads".

That familiar sound. Principal as the school conductor. "Chooo". Just as it drones, my body moves to the steps of teens dragging their feet toward their dreaded first classes of the day. The light of morning cradles the marble arches of the school entrance until the sun starts to suck in the morning cold to blow out midday warmth.

"So, who are you, voice? What's your angle? Typing ensues. The screen watches my fleeting pupils; left, right, side, side. Wouldn't be surprised if the computer got whiplash from me. One scroll, two, three. Read a page. Nothing. Another website. Up and down; my fingers are cramped now. Nada. New Oogdle search: "Can I hear voices with weed smoking." Now I have a hit; "yes weed can have you seeing voices. Many aren't even your own. Maybe lay off the TV for a while."

"Thanks 'BouncyNina29'. Quora is one hell of a place." Guess it must've just been the drugs then. Hilarious, me hearing some voice. "Gotta lay off the bong smoking".

"Shhh!!" Some nerd in a striped beanie raised a finger to pursed lips.

Sorry, sorry....Jeez. "My bad" You know what? Maybe I can visit----

the train whistle interrupts my 11pm "ball" with myself. "Dammit". OK. Maybe I can bribe one of the delinquents behind the school to take my place in English. Teacher's not there anyway; the sub won't know the difference. Time to go pay someone off.

"..."

"Here ya go, five dollars."

"A'ight and you said what room that English class in?"

"301 B man. It's at the end of the third floor, right wing. Hard to miss and---remember---my name is Maybel Rhodes. Just fake like you're doing some work and no one will even notice that you're not me. I'm a loner, so, that'll work."

"Mhm hmm. I hear ya Maple"

"MayBEL"

"Yeah, that's what I said"

Scoff. In a smooth curvular motion, I plant my feet on the board and race to Sage's before their store closes.

As I approach, they're putting a silver key in a lock. Gah! The store closed.

"Miss Sage---"

"Gah! Don't do that!! Scaring me and sh--I mean, 'crap'. Scaring me and crap. Look kid, I'm closed right now but we open tomorrow. By then, I'll have the energy to discuss your school's anklet with you. Actually, about that. Do you have intel on where the-----"

"Yes, yes. About that, see...I lied. I didn't really get it from the school. I found it on the ground somewhere."

"'Found it on the ground somewhere' is code for 'I don't have money to pay nor do I have anything else to provide'? Am I getting warmer?"

"Look Miss Sage, I'm really sorry. Hey---look at it this way. I'm in debt to you. If you'll just help me with one teensy little thing, I'll ask my dad for some food money and will give you every cent he gives, alright?"

"Kid, that's not how an adult runs a business. Call what I gave you yesterday a 'freebie'. You're banned from the store. Good night."

Wait. "Wait" Their stride is aimed toward their silver camry. Yeah, I know a camry. Did you expect them to be riding a horse? Racist. Sage acts as though they don't hear and gets into their seat, key in ignition. One twist away before exiting the rocky parking area.

"IT SPOKE TO ME" Yup. That is how I yelled it. All caps, woke some birds up even. Just like in those Loony Toon cartoons. Is that why they're called "Loony Toons" 'cause they're loony cart----

Now they exit their car, slamming the heavy metal door. "What did you say? It...SPOKE...to you? What do you mean 'it'?"

Mhm Mhm. Just prepping my throat. "I wore it on my ankle and I heard a voice that has never existed before in the chasms----"

"Stop the theatrics"

"....Chasms of my mind. It was a male. Around your age in old-timey-ness."

"Har har."

"But it's the truth!" Why won't they believe a magical voice but insist that sage, a random plant, purifies the air?

Their chest contracts and expands in a sigh. Sage closes their eyes for a second. I could practically smell the gears turning. Need some WD-40, really. "Fine. Come by the store Saturday. That way, no one will be in to eavesdrop."

"Deal!"

"And bring actual MULA this time or else we won't have our little discussion". Crud.

"...."

"What are you thinking Sage?" No response. I paid one hundred fifty dollars for this after BEGGING both my folks (who think I'm using it to enroll in some after school sport) to slide me some cash so that I can 'better myself as an individual and actually do something with my time as well'. Lies are no good.

"Shh! Let me think, please!" Sage subverts their attention from me back onto the tarot cards laid in front of them----exactly where the bone anklet (bonklet) lay in silence

Ten minutes pass before Sage gives me the break down. "So, as I've said before. The anklet carries some heavy energy, something similar to passion and justice. Very potent stuff. That's what the spirit realm is saying, anyway. When you were---ahem--- HIGH----"

At this point I look away

"...You honed into that energy and that's why you heard the voice"

"Hm. So, how do I hone in on that energy now? Is it something I can control conscious?"

"Look, I dunno kid. Just, be safe. Meditate beforehand so that you are actually able to chime into the anklet's power source. Don't want to darken the talisman's power or anything."

"Sure, sure" I am literally out the door before Sage utters the second part of their sentence. I buzz with excitement at the opportunity and the best part is? I'm basically a super! Hoo ho. This is awesome.

There's an empty industrial facility near by Hawesome Li Cosmetics. It went bankrupt several decads ago. I'm pretty much the only one who knows about the place. Excellent ground to skate on---smooth as butter. Either way, it's empty and no harm will come to anything or anyone nearby. Any damage that I do will be to the building nearby, which no one cares about anyway. "So, it's just me and you buddy." Blunt in hand, I blaze it up. "Time for the magic to happen."

It's a slow high. The high takes as long as a flame reaching the wooden stick of an incense rod for the high to hit. Upwards of thirty minutes. So I wait. It feels like time warps. So I meditate. So I clear my thinking and reach out to the anklet.

"Mhm, Anklet, tell me who you are?"

"What?? You can hear me?"

"Yeah man. Who are you, why you speaking to me?"

"Why would I tell you? I don't even know yer name"

Tiring. It's like talking to a wall.

"Hey, I heard that!"

"Maybel. My name's Maybel. What's yours? Let's start there."

"Nat."

"Like Nat Turner? The rebel slave?"

"Don't know who that is, this 'Nat Turner'. Just knew my master gave me the name." How progressive. "So...I suspect that I'm dead."

It's not easy news. I get it. But hey, the north won. That's something, right?

"Well, I guess it is....you know, I had a name before all of this...."

"......"

"......??"

"......."

So, are you going to tell me?

"You may call me 'Asim'."

"I'll call you Ase."

Don't call me 'Ase'. Too late, Ase. Hey, how old are you anyway? 12? 11? My name is ASIM, nothing else. Fine, grumpy. ASIM. I'll call you Asim, Asim. Where'd that name come from anyway? What does it mean?

"Let's find out, shall we?"

"...It feels electric! (Boogy woogy woogy). Such power, this wade in...glory."

Are you a God?

"Blasphemy!" Then what are you? How are you able to lay such energy unto me?

Look, I don't know either, alright? But what I do know is...we're both negr---

Black. We don't say that word anymore.

"Black, then... Perhaps I'm connected with you due to our shared skin?" We stopped being related millenia ago. Millenia? Not familar with that word.

"Long, long ago. We don't share any common ancestors. It was all a lie." A lie? You don't believe in a God? I'm moreso spiritual; creation is a possibility not something I'm invested in. I believe in forces of the universe. "But not a God? So, this can't be some spiritual connection. We're too different." So perhaps a soul connection? A link between our spirits.... What else do we have in common? A slave and a black kid?

"Hatred of the white man? Wanting justice against them?"

"War. Destruction"

"Yes."

"No, I don't want that. I'd prefer peace." There may be no PEACE without WAR.

"A lie. Violence is not the answer. Kindness is."

"'Kindness' doesn't resolve problems. 'Kindness' doesn't end racism. 'KINDNESS' was the one that slept at my feet while I was lashed! "

"..."

Asim?

"..."

Andddd you're gone. Great. Well, I'm going to head back home, then. We can hang out again tomorrow. "Head back" means leave. All right, see you.

[matchagency744]

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Just because you’re single, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you can’t partake in a getaway. In all actuality, there are an abundance of vacation destinations that are located all over the world, that specifically cater to single individuals who wish to take a vacation by themselves but still be able to enjoy the opportunity of being able to intermingle with other people who have a similar agenda. In this overview, we’ll take a look at the top weekend getaways for singles.

Cooking Vacations

One of the most sociable forms of weekend getaways for singles is cooking vacations. If you are looking to meet people – this is a great choice. Cooking is full of energy and activity. The experience of learning how to make a delicious dish is a great one to share. Situations are usually funny, laid back and generally fun. Plus – you always get the chance to eat together and try your own meals at the end of the day. What better excuse to sit around and get to know a new and exciting group of people?

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2. Yoga Retreats

Yoga retreats are an excellent choice for weekend getaways for singles as they have a strong and simple focus. For those who are new to the activity, or for those who have practiced it for a while, these vacations are simple and relaxing. They revolve around the practice of one of the world’s most calming exercises. You can push yourself to new levels with the help of expert instructors. Or you can learn for the first time about a practice quickly becoming a universal fad.

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3. Detox

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Detox vacations are becoming more and more popular as people are striving for a chance to step back from their busy and frantic lives. In a fast-paced society, with increasing pressure from work and social life, people are often yearning for the chance to be alone and get back to basics. This is exactly what singles detox vacations offer.

Many people lack the knowledge to create their own healthy meals. Many people lack the discipline or structure to stabilize their sleep. Many people lack time to step back and take a break simply. During singles detox retreats, experts organize all these things for you. You do not have to plan or structure your day, but simply go with the flow and feel the positive effects.

In this time, you also get to learn how to improve your lifestyle back home – and meet some friendly faces along the way.Have a look at this website for some great detox vacations.

4. Meditation

Many people want to try meditation but don’t know where to start. Participating in a singles meditation vacation is a great way to combat this conflict. Meditation is a fundamentally simple thing, yet we require some guidance to realize its full potential. The result is a set of skills and practices to take home and apply to your daily routine.

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5. Rancho La Puerta – Mexico

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Regarded as being one of the best weekend getaways for singles and located approximately 3 miles from the U.S. border, totaling a 3-hour drive from Los Angeles, the Rancho La Puerta is a family owned weekend vacation destination that has been receiving an influx of positive reviews since it was originally established in 2007. What makes this destination so unique is that they have a variety of packages that have been specially customized to suit a single individual which starts from approximately $400 for a weekend. The 3000 acres of private gardens of Rancho La Puerta are a perfect opportunity for nature lovers who would love to visit a ranch like destination and be able to intermingle with other nature lovers in a safe environment.

6. Grand Oasis – Fiesta In Cancun Weekend Package – Mexico

One of the getaway packages that have been rising in popularity for declaring themselves as an ideal destination for singles is the Fiesta In Cancun All Inclusive package that the Grand Oasis offers. The Grand Oasis is highly regarded for being the premier hotel for entertainment. The hotel proclaims that they have the largest pool in Cancun. They are also on a property that features a 1/2 mile beach front.

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7. Club Getaway – Connecticut, United States

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Unlike most vacation destinations that offer a single weekend package along with a variety of other packages that range from 1-4 weeks. Club Getaway on the other hand specifically deals with weekend getaways for singles only. Club Getaway is on a property that spans over 300 acres. It overlooks the beautiful lake in the Berkshire Mountains of Kent, Connecticut. Their weekend packages feature a variety of activities, such as:

Water sports activities like wakeboarding, kayaking, canoeing, and sail-boating.

Adventure sports such as rock climbing, mountain biking, and zip lining.

Late night campfires and dinner parties

8. New Orleans Plantation Country – Louisiana, United States

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If you’re located in the northern, western or eastern side of the U.S. but would love to experience the cuisine and distinctive customs of The South, this getaway location is for you. New Orleans Plantation Country gained worldwide notoriety after a series of Hollywood producers utilized the property as a backdrop for a variety of movies. What makes this destination unique is that vacationers have the opportunity to stay at either the Poche Plantation B & B or the Ormond Plantation B & B. Both of which are located on the property and both of which were established in the early 1800s.

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[harperkent]

Harper Mariah Kent’s Summer Adventure - Locked Up with the Grandparents Edition - @gallaghertasks

ft. @gldensvns && @vgdemy

When Harper thought about leaving Gallagher and going back home, she was expecting to sit in her childhood home in Washington. Jasper already made it known that she wasn’t leaving the house, not at all liking how he could’ve lost his only child. Going from one lockdown to another, cool, it was whatever. At least then she would be able to chill and hang out with her dad and uncle. Until their most recent phone call and Jasper said that she would spend the summer with her grandparents in Chicago. Chicago is fun, lots to do and shouldn’t be bad. It was just her grandparents that was the problem. Two very black old souls who definitely wouldn’t let her leave (she was their only grandchild after all), force her to clean everyday, AND make her go to church. You may be thinking, ‘oh, that’s not bad!’ but you’re unaware of the activities that happen at a black church and a life with a black family.

Get up at seven in the morning to get ready for church, help your grandma make food for everyone afterwards, get there at ten in the morning and then get out of service at three in the afternoon. But you don’t go home until almost seven in the evening because your grandparents just have to talk to everyone and you gotta go eat at the pastors house. You’re not allowed to use your phone until after church and even then you’ll have adults peering at you, asking questions about who you’re texting and comments about how people in your generation are always on their phones. Then you have bible study and church on Wednesday at seven in the evening; it just doesn’t end.

And while Harper isn’t a fan of church, it’s not all too bad. Because she’s surrounded by her grandparents, two people who love and adore her. There were just times when the two could be too much, ya’ know? Like yelling at her if she doesn’t clean up, chirping her for being unable to quote something from the bible, or asking if she’s still with Michael (”You should try to get back together with him. He was such a sweet young man and the two of you would’ve had some beautiful babies.” Harper almost threw up her meatloaf at what her grandmother said to her.).

There was the plus side of it all aka having her phone back and talking to her friends. The groupchat was back to being constantly blown up because it was just nice being able to text each other. A daily FaceTime session between Harper and Grace (”Michael texted me that he missed me... I told him to go choke on dirt.”), texting her new Gallagher friends (”Grayson, please just learn this TikTok dance… I don’t care if you’ll look dumb, it’s the Savage dance challenge and you need to do it.”), and even an unexpected text from a certain someone.

I’m in Chicago, want to meet up?

She blinked a few times, not at all expecting for Rafael to text her. The two had exchanged numbers and would sometimes text each other but that was it. So to get this message caught her off guard but hey, someone she knew in Chicago? Of course she was going to take up the offer to meet up.

It took some time to convince her grandparents to let her go but they finally cracked (how could you say no to your favorite grandchild?). It was awkward, her and Rafael hanging out together. Their conversations before always had to do with Grace, you can’t always talk about her (harper vc: you wanna bet?). It was difficult at first, the two trying to find something, anything to say. It was finally when Harper looked at Rafael, phone in hand and the TikTok app open. “Wanna learn a TikTok dance with me?”

It was after the duo trying to learn a few dances and failing that began their friendship and broke away the awkwardness. Pictures were taken, video calls to Grace (”I can’t believe the two of you are hanging out without me! This is rude!”), and just being young. It was during this time that the two realized that if things were different, if they were all normal, that they would’ve been good friends who worked together to protect Grace. That dynamic duo that you wouldn’t want to fuck around with. 

But alas, the universe wasn’t too nice to any of them, the previous semester proved that. All they could do was enjoy the present and appreciate what was before them. 

Rafael’s visit didn’t last long, only a few days as he went to hang out with Scott (”Tell my light skin half that I said hi, alright.”). After that, Harper was alone in Chicago with her family. A family that loved and missed her. A family that checked up on her whenever it was possible. So, while it sucked that she couldn’t visit her friends, at least she had her family right beside her. 

Extra facts:

Jasper found Harper a therapist after she asked for him to get her one. Meeting with the Gallagher therapist actually helped her a lot and from those sessions, she found herself wanting to continue going through with the sessions elsewhere.

Daily FaceTime session with her wife where they talk about any and everything. 

Find her still messaging her Gallagher friends because after talking and apologizing to them, she realizes how much she cares about them. 

Grayson: she’s still teaching him the ways of megan thee stallion and beyonce, her british friend WILL be cultured

Caden: best believe that she texts him on the regular, sending him tiktoks and stupid memes that reminds her of him (”Look, it looks like you” *sends him a garbage can or something*)

Rafael: after their visit, the two talk about different stuff! mostly about their lowkey tiktok fame that they got from their failed dancing videos

Her free time has gone towards working on creating clothes for Marlowe’s upcoming baby because she’s THAT friend

[garden-of-succulents]

@bardofspades​ suggested we #wipitgood, which is to say, since Check Please is ending soon, clean out our WIP folders with all the OMGCP fic we never got around to finishing.

This is my first WIP to post. Trigger warning: Child sexual abuse

A bit of backstory: Curtis O’Brien, my OC, fills the same space, more or less, as real-life hockey player Sheldon Kennedy, who revealed as an NHL player that he was sexually abused by his hockey coach when he was a teenager. He traded off the ability to sue the pants off the Canadian Hockey League for the ability to force them to implement training and policies aimed at preventing and reporting child abuse. After he got his PTSD somewhat under control, he became a full-time advocate against child abuse. 

My headcanon is that Kent likewise suffered abuse from his Bantam coach, and has spent a long time determinedly not talking about it. I wanted to write a fic where, before he did start talking about it, someone (in this case, Andy) got him to talk to the one man who’s an expert on what it’s like to be an NHL player out as a survivor. This piece really stops before any of that actual stuff takes place. You just get, you know, Kent being awkward, and everyone being giant nerds about public health. Oh, and the claim that Cummerbund was Andy's dog before she moved to LV, when I later determined that Kent and Andy adopted him together.

---

Andy met Curtis O'Brien when he came out of Customs, smiling her customer-service smile with a card on his name on it but feeling a bit silly. He was easy to pick out of the crowd: an ex-hockey player in a suit, a tall man with a slightly jerky walk who scanned the crowd for her. When he approached she tried to upgrade to the relaxed cheer she tried to copy off rich people who had never been afraid of getting fired, transcending Director of the Aces Foundation to the offhanded, casually powerful just Andy. She couldn't think of him as a prominent expert in his field or the board member of national-level organizations in two countries or a consultant on an important initiative key to her job's success; she just had to smile and welcome a guest to her home. He clutched his checked baggage when she offered to take it from him at the carousel, so she just led him out to short-term parking.

Kent was back from morning workout when they arrived at the house, so he faked calm like Andy and shook Curtis's hand with the hockey-player head dip and mumbled greeting, which Curtis returned. Andy wrestled his suitcase to their guest room, having pounced on it when she parked the car, and invited him to make himself comfortable.

"Nice house," he said, but apparently there wasn't any kind of hidden message behind it. It was a nice house, for a strictly median definition of "nice"; Kent's teammates claimed mansions outside city limits and he'd left a penthouse taking up half a floor to come here, but nothing differentiated their house on the street from any other three-bedroom split level on the block. Its yard was neatly xeriscaped, its carpets clean, appliances undamaged, and she could afford the rent, which had long been the height of Andy's domestic ambitions, but a lot of people didn't think it befitted Kent's dignity or whatever.

"Nice dog," Curtis added, bending over to let Cummerbund wash his hand enthusiastically. Speaking of things that didn't fit Kent's dignity—but the dachshund had been Andy's first.

"Yeah, he's a big suck-up," Andy said. "Smell a fresh mark, hey boy? I bet he'll even scratch your belly for you."

"Don't be hard on him," Curtis said, scratching behind Cummerbund's ears. "He's a good boy."

Cummerbund sat under Curtis's chair and looked beseeching during lunch, while the humans ate cobb salad and made smalltalk. Andy was friends with some of the CWHL players Curtis did an annual fundraiser with. Kent thought one of the kids on Curtis's local WHL team was a good pick for Team USA for World Juniors. Curtis's officemate was doing Crossfit and using the supplements one of Kent's sponsors made; he was training for a marathon. Easy stuff.

From the tension in his shoulders Andy thought Kent would leave it there and move on for the afternoon, claim he was letting their guest settle in. Instead he grimaced in a friendly way and said, "You know, tomorrow will be the first time I've actually sat through one of your guys' trainings."

Curtis reached down to scratch Cummerbund's head. His movements were quiet, but still betrayed a lot of energy, like he was used to slowly leaking stress around the edges while keeping his eye on the puck. "It's getting rarer that anyone lasts very long in hockey without taking one of our classes," he said. "Almost everybody who works with kids does."

"Yeah," Kent said, his hands twitching where he kept them held down on the table, like he wanted to gesture. "I had to, I read the material and took the certificate exam online? I couldn't—I went, like, the morning of it, but I had to leave, so I caught up after." He paused, lifted a hand to scratch the back of his neck, and admitted, "You came to my team in Juniors to give a talk, and I pretended I was sick. Hid at home, got one of my friends to tell Coach I couldn't make it. They scratched me for a game." He was red by the time he'd finished saying it, reaching for his water bottle and fiddling with his lid, didn't look up; instead he picked a cube of cheese off his salad and offered it down to Cummerbund.

"Hard stuff to deal with," Curtis said oddhandedly, though high spots of colour were appearing in his cheeks. He was trying his best to downplay it, though. "Some people gotta take their own time."

"Yeah," Kent said, and blinked, like he'd expected a scolding that hadn't come. He shook his shoulders out a little. "Yeah. It's... yeah. I can't deal with... I couldn't, for a long time."

Curtis stayed quiet, looking at him, as Kent suffered through silence, until it seemed at Kent had no more words to summon up; then he turned to Andy and asked, without fuss, "You're organizing all the people coming in tomorrow, correct?"

"Yeah," she said, curling a hand around Kent's under the table and trying to pick up the conversational ball. "I, uh... yeah. We've got the researchers and the Children's Services people, and some state athletic associations, about ten different sports, and uh, we're expecting about twenty coaches and other people from the Four Corners area."

Curtis raised his eyebrows. "I thought you couldn't get steady numbers from them?"

"Well actually," Andy said, "I have a friend? She's indigenous Mexican and she's got some friends at the Hualapai reservation, and they invited us down to this inter-tribal baseball tournament in Phoenix last month, so I ended up meeting a lot of people there, some of them people I'd been emailing the last six months. But it was making the in-person contact that really got them to commit."

[punmasterkentparson]

happier

ao3

Alexei realizes, one night in the middle of brushing his teeth, that Kent doesn’t call him “babe” anymore.

When did that stop?

Alexei counts the days. After five, he worries. After ten, his chest aches.

After seventeen, he lies awake in bed next to his husband and wonders if they’re falling apart. If they already have.

He realizes he can’t recall the last time he called Kent golubka and it’s like a star collapsing in his chest. His ribs are caving into a black hole.

He watches Kent over coffee the next morning and wonders if Kent has noticed they’re falling apart, too.

--

New Years brings friends and champagne and Alexei watching Kent from across the room all night, trying to figure out when they stopped orbiting each other like moons and became asteroids. They don’t find each other in crowds like they used to. Kent doesn’t reach for him when they’re near; doesn’t touch Alexei’s arm to get his attention, doesn’t put a hand on his back to guide him, doesn’t nudge their shoulders together until Alexei smiles and relents and wraps an arm around him.

The New Year comes. They almost don’t find each other in time to kiss, and when they do, Kent doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

Alexei never expected his heart to break after he’d already said “I do.”

--

Kent doesn’t want to talk, is the problem. He deflects everything: “There’s nothing to talk about.” “You can’t fix it.” “Just let it go, Alexei.”

Everything is broken and Kent won’t even tell him where the cracks are, where they began.

Alexei finds an apartment across town. The term is “separated” but as far as Alexei is concerned, it’s just a pre-requisite to divorce. If this really is the end, Kent can keep the house. Alexei doesn’t want to live in a place filled to the brim with the deafening echo of memories.

--

Three months into their “separation” and two days into Alexei’s search for a divorce lawyer, he stops by the house (not their house, just the house) for the last of his spring wardrobe and stops dead in the living room.

Every inch of every piece of furniture is covered in Kent’s clothes. Piles and piles of it.

Kent walks in with another armful. He stumbles to a stop when he sees Alexei. “Oh. I didn’t know you were...”

Alexei gestures to the mess and makes an expression of profound incredulity.

Kent turns splotchy-pink with embarrassment, his gaze skittering over the chaos. “I’m cleaning.”

“You don’t clean,” Alexei says dumbly, and then winces, because—it’s an old joke, older than their wedding bands, that Kent can’t keep a closet organized to save his life.

It’s a joke that’s part of a life with Kent that Alexei doesn’t have anymore.

Kent walks past him and drops the armful of clothes onto an arm of the sofa. “I’m still using the Netflix account. There’s this new show about cleaning.” He surveys the disaster; he doesn’t look at Alexei. “Guess I got inspired.”

“It doesn’t look like clean,” Alexei replies. The constant disarray that Kent leaves in his wake has always been a small sore point between them, something they’d argue about intensely on bad days and fondly on good days. There are no days of any kind between them anymore. Alexei isn’t sure if this mess is making his heart ache with nostalgia, or giving him hives.

“There’s a method,” Kent says. “Step one is sorting through all your clothes. You’re supposed to put everything in one pile so you can see how much you have.” A small sliver of a smile slides over Kent’s face like a flicker of sunlight, there and then gone. “I’ve got a lot.”

Alexei could have told him that. “How you know what keep?”

Kent sucks on his lip. “The cleaning guru says you should only keep things that ‘spark joy.’ That’s what she called it.”

Joy. Alexei doesn’t know what the fuck that is, anymore. “Have to get my things,” he says, moving past Kent and down the hall to the bedroom. Their bedroom. Kent’s bedroom. Four walls and a queen-sized bed. “Good luck clean.”

Ten minutes later, when Alexei leaves, Kent is sitting quietly on the floor, going through his clothes piece by piece. As Alexei watches, Kent picks up a souvenir t-shirt from their cruise to Alaska three years ago and holds it to his chest. After a moment, Kent whispers, “Thank you,” and puts the t-shirt aside into a pile.

It could be the pile for ‘keep.’ But from the way Kent’s fingers linger on it and then force themselves away, Alexei thinks it’s probably bound for the trash.

He carries his clothes and his aching heart out to the car and leaves.

--

Alexei finds a good divorce lawyer. Kent accepts without a fight. Days go by and Kent accepts everything without a fight. There’s no haggling over division of assets. It’s like Kent doesn’t care what parts of Alexei he gets to keep. Like he just wants to give every last bit of Alexei away.

It makes Alexei so mad that he ends one of their meetings with the lawyer by yelling at Kent. 

“You always say this. ‘Sure.’ ‘Fine.’ ‘I don’t care.’ Is money, is car, is stocks—what the fuck you mean, don’t care? Maybe I just take everything, you don’t care!”

Kent shrugs from his armchair. His eyes are on the floor. “Sure. Take it.”

The lawyer sighs. “Kent—”

“Fuck you!” Alexei shouts, and storms out. People avoid him in the hallway, all the way to the elevator. In the parking lot, he sits in his car and fumes. He wants Kent to fight, if not for them, then at least for himself.

He wipes tears from his eyes before they can fall. Love, it turns out, is harder to get rid of than a marriage.

--

Kent texts a week later, asking him to stop by the house. When Alexei comes—warily, let it be known—there’s a box waiting for him in the foyer. It’s taped up and has his name on it, but no explanation of its contents.

Alexei finds Kent continuing his cleaning binge in the living room. This time, the floor is covered in magazines and books.

“What’s in box?” he demands.

“Documents. Step two of the cleaning program,” Kent replies. He’s sitting perpendicular to Alexei, a clear view of him in profile. Kent is gorgeous from all directions, but especially in profile, when the light and shadows sharpen his cheekbones and highlight the biteable jut of his Adam’s apple. It makes Alexei think of their wedding night. And the next morning. And their honeymoon.

“Step two is books?” Alexei asks.

“Paper, technically,” Kent replies. “Books are part of it.” He hasn’t made eye contact with Alexei in weeks, but he makes it now. “The documents were easy because it’s just things in your name, but... a lot of these are yours.” He gestures to the myriad piles. “I thought...you might want to...go through them yourself.”

Division of assets. So casual, like it’s easy. Alexei wants to kick him. “Can’t just put them in box?”

“I didn’t know which ones you wanted to keep.”

“Just give me all, can do myself.”

Kent opens his mouth, makes the beginning of a sound—and then bites it off. Looks away. Stares tight-lipped at the books, wanting something but refusing to tell Alexei what.

Alexei can hate him at the same time as love him. “Fine. I look.” He sits on the floor as far from Kent as he can be while still within reach of most of the books. 

They sort through the books in almost dead silence. Alexei keeps hearing Kent murmur his thanks to the books he doesn’t keep.

(”It’s part of the process,” Kent had explained. “You thank items for their service before you get rid of them.”)

It’s uncomfortable. It hurts.

Kent will thank books for spending their life with him, but not Alexei.

After an hour, they’re finished. Alexei has a much smaller pile of books than he’d planned, although he feels wholly certain of his commitment to each one.

Kent’s pile of books is even smaller. When Alexei goes to the bedroom for a box to put his books in, he sees trash bags full of clothes that Kent hasn’t gotten rid of yet. It’s more than he expected Kent to give away. Seeing it makes Alexei feel... scared. How much of them, of himself, of everything, is Kent trying to give away? It’s like Kent is cleaning out not just their home, but himself.

Alexei packs up his books and carries them to his car. Kent follows, carrying the documents.

“Thanks,” Kent says. “For coming over. For helping.”

Alexei looks at him. Tries to find something to say. Everything he wants to say is too late. Nothing he can say will stop the inevitable, not if Kent won’t fight for it, too.

I miss you. I love you.

Alexei wants to kiss him. Hold him again. He’s so tired of falling asleep alone in cold sheets.

“No problem,” Alexei says. He gets in his car and drives away.

--

Their divorce lawyer and Alexei try to get Kent to set concrete numbers for what he wants out of the settlement. Kent ignores them both and carries on cleaning, sending Alexei photos of dishes and household tools and linens and Halloween decorations and keeps asking, Do you want this? Does it spark joy?

Alexei comes to hate that phrase.

He keeps having to come over to sort items and collect things. It’s like living at the house again, like living at home, and Kent acts like it’s normal while their divorce lawyer is on Alexei’s fucking speed dial and Alexei is quickly sick of it.

“Fuck, Kent, I don’t care,” he spits one day, when Kent drags him back to the house to look at the pile of household toiletries spread out on the kitchen counters. “You’re always ask me, ‘Does it spark joy?’ What you fucking think?! I’m getting divorce!” he yells, and it’s good they don’t live in that tiny apartment in Boston anymore, because his voice could shake the walls. “You want go through our whole life piece by piece, pick everything up and say ‘thank you’ when throwing away, throwing away our life, our home, and don’t even tell me why you’re doing!”

Kent’s expression is blank. He looks fragile. “It’s just what they did on the show—”

“Not why cleaning, why you—” Alexei’s throat closes. “Why you leave me.”

Kent swallows. “I didn’t—I’m here.”

“You not here. We both know. Same bed but you so far away. You not here and I ask you why, so many times, why you go, where you go, but you don’t talk to me. You’re never talk to me. Just say ‘You can’t fix it.’ Don’t let me—don’t let me try. Just want you talk to me. Please.”

Kent’s face is ashen. “Alexei...I...”

Alexei waits, but Kent doesn’t finish.

How can loving someone hurt this much?

Alexei twists off his wedding ring. He clutches it in his hand. He remembers their first date, their first night together, their first apartment, Kent’s proposal, their wedding, their first dance. He remembers holding Kent on the dance floor and aching with love, aching with joy at the miracle of having him forever.

He holds the ring and aches with the misery of not knowing where he went wrong. But if this is what Kent wants, Alexei won’t deny him.

He kisses the ring. “Thank you.” He puts it on the counter and turns around, heading for the door.

Kent doesn’t call him back.

--

A week later, Alexei has the divorce papers in his hands. It doesn’t feel real.

He signs them anyway.

At midnight, Alexei’s phone vibrates right off his bedside table. Groaning, he rolls over and feels around the floor until he finds it.

Five missed calls from Kent, one after the other.

Alexei texts, what.

Please come home.

Alexei tries to call but Kent doesn’t pick up.

I’m sorry. Please just come home.

Alexei is out the door in minutes.

--

Alexei’s key still works. The house is quiet, dark. The only light is a pale lamp in the living room. It illuminates Kent, sitting among an assortment of dusty boxes from the attic. His shoulders are hunched and his face is in his hands.

“Kent, what’s--”

“I got scared,” Kent whispers hoarsely. “I should have told you, but I just—I didn’t know how to...”

Alexei pushes the nearest box aside and sits next to Kent. The boxes have labels like Christmas and wedding and anniversary. Their wedding photo album is open in front of Kent. The prominent picture features them feeding each other cake, as messily as they can. Frosting sticks to their noses and lips and they’re laughing.

“I’m sorry,” Kent says into his hands. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

“Kent, what’s wrong?” Gently, Alexei touches his shoulders, and finds them shaking. He nudges Kent to face him, although Kent doesn’t look up. “Kent, talk to me. What happen?”

“You said you wanted kids.”

Alexei is gobsmacked. “I’m say? When I’m say?”

“New Hampshire. Our anniversary.” Kent shudders, still hiding his face, and leans forward until his forehead is pressed to Alexei’s collarbone. “We had dinner and then we went back to the room, and I made you come twice—”

“I remember.” God, does he ever.

“—and I think... I think it was the wine, but before you went to sleep, you said... ‘We should have little boy and girl, just like you. Husband perfect, children perfect.’” Kent huffs a watery laugh. “Then you passed out.”

Alexei... very, very vaguely recalls that. “You don’t ever say.”

“I panicked.”

Alexei does the math. “...You panic for ten months?”

“I’m sorry,” Kent repeats. “I can’t keep shit together, you’ve seen me. I’m a mess. Remember how shocked you were that I started cleaning? I thought—I thought if we kept moving forward, someday you’d just... have had enough. Of me.” Kent’s breath comes fast and quick.

Alexei gathers him up, wraps him tightly in his arms, not even hesitating. It’s instinct. “That’s why you clean?”

“Maybe at first. It just made things worse, though.”

“Why you don’t talk to me?” Alexei asks. “Ten fucking months, why you don’t—”

“I got scared. I’m sorry.”

Alexei squeezes him so hard that Kent grunts. “Have to talk to me. You not alone in this fucking marriage, here, is me too. You thinking I leave you because of mess, have to ask me if is true. Because it’s not. If you don’t want kids, have to say. ”

Kent shakes his head against Alexei’s shirt. “No, I...”

Alexei waits.

Kent spits it out. “I think... a girl and a boy wouldn’t be so bad.”

Alexei loves this idiot so goddamn much. He wants to yell at him for putting them both through this shit, and kiss him until he’s gasping for air. He wants to drop Kent’s ass like yesterday’s news, and take his last breath curled up with him in the same nursing home bed when they’re ninety.

How can he be so angry with someone and still love him more than he ever has in his life?

“Please don’t leave me,” Kent whispers, hands balling up Alexei’s shirt hard enough to leave wrinkles.

“Not leave you, golubka. Never leave you.”

A sob hitches in Kent’s throat, shakes his body. “You left your wedding ring.”

“You get rid of so much,” Alexei says. “You clean out everything. I’m think... shouldn’t make you keep us if it’s not...spark joy.” He really, really hates that phrase.

Kent sniffs. He’s making Alexei’s shirt wet with tears. “You’re the most joy I’ve ever had.”

Alexei hides his face in Kent’s hair. “You more joy than I’m ever think I get.” He’s crying, too. He wants to put them back together. He’s not sure they can, after this, after almost a year of Kent hiding his fears and letting their marriage nearly dissolve instead of expressing himself, but Alexei wants to try. He’s never felt so much about anything like he feels all-encompassingly for Kent.

“You such idiot,” Alexei murmurs. “So much idiot. Hate you so fucking much, make me feel so much shit. Going to make you clean whole house every day for rest of life, to making this up to me.”

Kent snorts wetly. It’s gross.

“You sign papers?” Alexei asks.

Kent swallows. “No. You?”

“Do yesterday. Will shred today,” he replies, and rubs Kent’s back to soothe him. “I want give you everything, golubka, even divorce, if you need.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

You do. “Don’t have to deserve. Just talk to me. Conversation is spark joy, okay?”

Kent laughs and hugs him tighter. “I missed you so much. Please come home.”

“Already here,” Alexei reassures him. “Promise I stay.”

--

Alexei’s clothes are back in the closet, his toiletries in the bathroom, his briefcase and laptop returned to their place in the study. Kent insists on re-sorting everything in the house, clothes and linens and dishes and all.

His reasoning is that the circumstances of his joy have changed.

“Mostly I was just getting rid of anything that hurt too much,” Kent admits while they’re going through their respective mountains of clothes. They’re both working in the living room. Kent says it’s for moral support, but Alexei thinks it’s just so Kent can watch him grind his teeth over painstakingly holding each pair of underwear and asking himself if it “sparks joy.”

Alexei ‘thanks’ a pair of silky boxers that look sexy but always give him a wedgie, and grumbles at the grin on Kent’s face. “Is stupid.”

“It’s Shinto,” Kent replies. “Everything’s got a spirit, babe, and you gotta acknowledge it.”

“If there ghost in my boxers, I don’t want talk to him.”

Kent laughs himself sick.

“If we have kids,” Alexei starts, and watches Kent carefully for a reaction. “You do this with them?”

It's a sticky topic. Kent still thinks he’d be a terrible father, despite his desire to be one, and he still fears that his failure as a parent would ruin their marriage worse than his silence nearly did. But at least he’s acknowledging it, and talking about it.

Kent takes a deep breath. “I mean. Yeah, I guess. I’d like to.” He meets Alexei’s gaze. “I think it would teach them to appreciate what they’ve got.”

Alexei nods. “I think so, too.” He reaches for Kent’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Good to learn what’s important for you.”

Kent blushes, looking down, but he’s smiling. He squeezes Alexei’s hand. “Yeah. Gotta hang onto what sparks joy.”

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

“A little village with a little mystery.”

London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846

  ~Cloudia~

 “How often will you come here again?” asked Arthur Randall, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  When I had wrapped up my Watchdog mission last week, I had been more than ready to return to my manor – but then, a letter from Thomas had arrived in which he informed me that a large part of the manor’s pipe system had broken down and that, thus, the manor was currently uninhabitable. As the remedial maintenance at the townhouse was still ongoing, Newman, Miss Greene, and I kept staying at the Morrow townhouse. The first week I had been with my family, I had my Watchdog work, the gallery opening, and my cousins to keep me busy. This week, I had no Watchdog work, there were no events to attend, and Ceara was ill and Keegan too grumpy and worried to do anything fun with.

Now, all I could do was sit in the Morrows’ library and read or, occasionally, go into the city and accidentally pass by Scotland Yard and overhear some case details.

  “This is the eleventh time this week – and it is only Thursday,” he continued and glared at her.

  Perhaps, it wasn’t quite “occasionally,” but gruesome murders and thievery entertained me more than gossip over tea.

  “It’s also the eleventh time this week that I am passing by the headquarters and you are around to see me,” Cloudia replied. She loosened the scarf around her neck a bit. Last week, it had been devastatingly cold, but now, the temperature had become more bearable – a development Cloudia hoped would last a little while longer. “Don’t you have any work to do, Randall? How does someone like you even become a detective constable? You are barely older than me and only joined the Met three years ago. Could it be that you paid your way up like Police Commissioner Rowan did until he became captain?”

Randall narrowed his eyes. “Says the girl who is only what she is because of her family.”

“You are only partially right, Constable: I am what I am because of my family, yes, but if I was completely useless, I would have been long replaced – or never even instated,” Cloudia said.

  I had met Arthur Randall for the first time nearly two years ago, and every time I saw him, I disliked him a bit more. Despite my dislike for him, I had to admit that he also caught my curiosity: The first time we had met, he had immediately known that I was the Queen’s Watchdog. This was especially interesting because, in the last two years, I had learned that there was absolutely nothing special about him to justify Rowan and Mayne’s decision to let Randall know about the Watchdog secret. So, my question was: Why did he know? The Commissioners couldn’t possibly consider to eventually make him their successor – what other reason could there be?

  “And will you ever stop rubbing my family history under my nose? In a twisted way, we are, after all, colleagues,” Cloudia added, and Randall chuckled. “Colleagues? With the likes of you? Even if it’s the last thing I do, I will stay here and protect this place from your kind, Lady Phantomhive.”

She smiled. “Oh, is that what you have been doing all week? Well, I wish you all the luck in the world that your feet will not die away in the cold before you are fired for doing nothing. If you may excuse me now: I have an appointment and am running a little bit late.”

  ***

  “Arthur Randall is nobody to lose any brain cells for, Cloudia. I have been telling you this for years,” said Cecelia and raised her cup to her lips.

  Scotland Yard was not the only place where I could get my share of crimes: Cecelia was a wonderful source for that too. I had no interest in pointless gossip discussed over tea – crimes discussed over tea, however, was the best form of socialising I knew.

  “I know, I know. But you were asking about my day, and, sadly, I didn’t do much except unwillingly meeting His Moronship,” Cloudia replied, leaning back into her sofa’s soft fabric and cushioning. Cecelia’s Blue Drawing Room was her favourite place in her mansion solely because it had the most comfortable furniture in it. “The manor and the townhouse are still in repair and I am getting more and more bored by the minute – so, thank you, for inviting me.”

“You are thanking me for inviting you? Cloudia, dear, you must be feeling worse than expected. I guess that is the curse of those who cannot sit still. You have too much energy to spare, and if you do not find anything to do, you wither away faster than the plants I had to look after for my father.” Cecelia waved with her hand and leaned back as well. “I, on the other hand, am contemplating about never leaving this sofa again. Or would an even more comfortable one be the better choice? Or a more beautiful one? On which sofa would you rather spend the rest of your life, Cloudia? The beautifully embroidered, immensely expensive one that claimed the lives of three decent men during its transportation? Or the ugly olive-coloured one which you did not intend to buy, but still did because your shoes were killing you, you sat down on the wretched thing, and it swallowed you whole, forcing you to purchase it?”

“You have such a sofa?”

“It’s in the boxroom. I believe it’s possessed, but I do not have the heart to get it exorcised. On the one hand, because I can feed especially annoying guests to it; on the other hand, because I do not believe in such superstitions. It is more likely that the sofa fell victim to an extraordinarily enthusiastic upholsterer.”

Cloudia shook her head in an effort to get rid of her grin. It didn’t work. “Do you really want to spend the rest of your life sitting? After the trip to Bristol?”

Cecelia groaned and took a blueberry tartelette. To uphold the drawing rooms’ aesthetic, she had told her cook to only prepare blue food: the muffins, biscuits, and tartelettes had been made with blueberries, blackberries, plums, and black currants. The sandwiches had been spread with blue jam and the tea service had a forget-me-not pattern. It was a surprise that the tea was not blue.

“What you don’t do for gathering intelligence! I should see Quirino to find a way to rename Duchess Adrianne Royceston to Hysteria Royceston! That woman organises a party spanning several days, including a trip to another town, and what does she do? Decide that we should travel to Bristol by carriage because she thinks trains are the ‘devil’s work’!”

“Still, you are thinking about sitting forever.”

“Cloudia, I have no aversion whatsoever to pass my time sitting. If the world was not like it is and dresses would not crinkle so easily, I would have decided to do this – sit until I die – a long, long time ago. I have always said that, in a better world, you would not have to go out and dirty your hands to get what you want, that you would get everything by simply clicking your fingers together instead. Father deemed this one of my worst traits. To be honest, I had no good traits in his eyes.

“To say it clean and concisely: I could sit for hours and hours with no end in sight, just not with any kind of ‘humpy-bumpy’ nonsense.” Cecelia skilfully cut her tartelette into pieces without even looking at it and said, “So, you have come to hear about some grisly crimes?”

“Yes.”

“Over tea?”

“Yes. And some biscuits,” said Cloudia.

“If Adrianne Royceston was here, she would have already sent for the local priest, his mentor, and the holy spirit itself. Are you sure that you know that things like this – being overly interested in murders and thievery – could get you sent to an exorcist at best and to an asylum at worst?”

Cloudia clutched her hands. “Asylums are worse than exorcisms?”

“Of course. If you end up in an asylum, you may never get out of there. During an exorcism, you are restrained and have to listen to a priest reciting all sorts of prayers for hours. When he is done, you pretend to have been successfully purified and do whatever you did to get exorcised for in the first place more secretly than before. I know what I am talking about: I have experienced it thrice and it is always the same.

“Unfortunately, it is easier to get thrown into an asylum than to be sent to the next certified exorcist. To get an exorcism, you either have to live in a place filled with religious hysterics, have a sudden change in personality and voice, an unusually cold room, have to correctly guess the weather for the next three days, be very moody and aggressive, lie down really weirdly, or hate the Church with a passion. To get to an asylum, all it takes is to drink alcohol or distribute bad whiskey. You could be declared a lunatic for having asthma or getting your son married! Pamela Tracey was sent to an asylum because she asked her mother if she could have a rat as a pet.” Cecelia put down her knife and looked at Cloudia. “I know that you know all this, Cloudia, but sometimes I wonder if you are forgetting or deliberately ignoring it. In any case, I want to remind you to be careful. All it takes is for someone to overhear one of your conversations with Randall or even to see you lingering outside the Yard every single day. I know the last few years were rough for you, but you eventually have to stop being so harsh to yourself and move on, Cloudia.” Cecelia wanted to reach out to her, but Cloudia pulled back.

“I would rather get for what I came here,” she stated.

Cecelia looked at her for a while and sighed. “Here I am, giving you advice for once, and you don’t take it! Then, so be it.” She leaned back. The tartelette was left untouched. “The Met is currently searching for a group of bandits known to hide around the area of manor houses. They wait until the inhabitants are wandering about, and then rob and, or abduct them. The last ones to be robbed were the Kents – poor Mary Louise was so terrified! They say that she still hasn’t left her room. Her fiancé Sean is beyond worried. Anyway, where was I? Oh, I remember.

“Our dear officers at the Yard are, of course, doing a wonderful job trying to find them. To their misfortune, Mary Louise’s mother is not allowing them to interrogate her poor, poor baby! Mary Louise is the sole witness in this case as the bandits have robbed her and her maid while they were taking a stroll. They have even tried to kidnap Mary Louise as well. In this moment, her maid proved to be a true loyal soul, intervened, and got killed while defending her protégée. Afterwards, the bandits ran off. But Mary Louise’s best friend’s sister’s best friend, Felicitas Wernholm, was with me in a carriage to Bristol to continue Duchess Royceston’s damned party. This lady could be Quirino’s long-lost sister, I tell you, because she was talking without any pauses for hours. In-between her chitter-chatter salad, she mentioned that she knew from her best friend that Mary Louise has seen the bandits vanish into the direction where the Beaumont and Croft estates are.” Cecelia raised her cup and took a sip of her tea.

Cloudia frowned. “That’s all?”

“That’s classified information for which the Met would pay me very good money. Not that I am interested in such things.”

“No, I meant it like that: ‘That’s all you have for me? A robbery? Where’s the grisly murder?’”

“I promised you a crime. Robbery and attempted kidnapping are crimes, Cloudia.”

“I know that, Cecelia. But murders are more exciting,” Cloudia said.

“Didn’t you listen to me? There was a murder! Mary Louise Kent’s maid was killed.”

“On accident, not on purpose.”

Cecelia sighed. “You are the reason why I am glad that Michael and I never had any children. Without him, I most definitely would not be able to endure them in this phase. And I endured the carriage ride to Bristol with Felicitas Wernholm.” She rubbed her face. “Cloudia, we both know that if you were truly so intent on hearing about grisly murders, you would go and learn about them yourself. Instead, you linger around the Yard and come to me. And why? Perhaps you want to take some of your agency away from it; perhaps you want to eventually point your finger at me and say ‘She made me do it!’ I don’t know. All I know is that, from now on, you will only get your murder case details from me if you stay away from Scotland Yard and take a break.” Cecelia gazed at Cloudia, a stern look in her eyes. “If Barrington visits me one more time crying and complaining, you are going to pay for my dress and carpet, do you understand, young lady?”

Cloudia sighed. “Yes, I understand. I promise to stay away and take a break. Satisfied?”

“Very,” said Cecelia and leaned back. “And now, let us talk about something more fun.”

  ***

  Cloudia’s favourite places to be had always been the little cosy corners, the alcoves lying in the shadows. If the world around her was fast and loud and messy, those places were always there for her, always giving her the time for herself she needed, the order, the calmness, the minute she required to take a deep breath and collect herself. Before Cloudia had learned about the Phantomhive Manor’s intricate system of secret pathways, those little places had been a blessing.

The oriel window in the library of the Morrow townhouse might not be the most hidden, not the most inconspicuous corner, but its comfortableness and feeling reminded Cloudia of all her secret little corners at home, and, for now, in her ongoing boredom, that was all that mattered to her.

  I could feel it in my bones: I would die here. Yesterday, my visits to Scotland Yard and Cecelia had kept me busy; today, I had nothing to do. “Died of utter boredom” would be scratched into my tombstone and everyone passing by my grave would wonder if this was even possible. This was my legacy, I knew it.

  With a sigh, Cloudia put a finger between the pages of Pictures of Italy and stared randomly in front of her. The library was rather small and the door usually kept open, and from the oriel window Cloudia could see the door and the corridor beyond it – and Keegan walking up and down the floor grumpier than she had ever witnessed him. It was quite a sight, so she kept watching him. She had been unable to concentrate on her book for the last hour anyway.

  Lately, he had been slightly grumpier than usual because Ceara was ill, but she had almost fully recovered. What could have caused the sudden increase in his bad mood?

  “Keegan,” Cloudia said, leaving Pictures of Italy at her seat and going to her cousin when he walked by for the millionth time today. “What is wrong?”

For a moment, he seemed to struggle whether to answer or not before he sighed and said, “I’ve remembered that Geoffrey Bentley asked Father if I could join his hunting party one day and that Father said yes. I’m supposed to go hunting with him and the rest of his party tomorrow.”

  Keegan was an exceptionally good tracker. People would constantly ask if he wanted to join them in a hunt or two, but as he had neither patience, passion, or interest in hunting, Keegan would always turn them down. He only used his skills for more mundane purposes. Growing up, it surely had been no fun playing hide and seek with him.

  “Why would Uncle Aiden even do something like that?” Cloudia asked. “After all, he knows how much you hate hunting and Geoffrey Bentley.”

“Because,” Keegan said with clenched teeth, “Bentley cannot be more of an annoying and loud person, and Father did not even listen to what he said: Bentley started talking to him, and Father simply nodded and agreed to whatever he was saying.”

“I have almost forgotten how much of a nuisance Geoffrey Bentley is. My ears still hurt a bit from the last time I heard him – from the other end of a ballroom.”

Keegan rubbed his temples. “It is not only Bentley. Of all the people who could be in Bentley’s hunting party, it’s Falk Flanagan and Cadell Beaumont.”

  I could not name a more chaotic trio than Cadell Beaumont, Falk Flanagan, and Geoffrey Bentley. They were a notorious group of troublemakers, and their presence at social events was always met with a wave of annoyed sighs. Separate, they were already an imposition; together, they were unbearable. Different as they were, they would always loudly bicker among one another. Everyone could only wonder why they were even friends.

  “No wonder why you are in such a bad mood,” said Cloudia.

“An entire day with those three at Beaumont’s estate… Ramming a fork into my own throat would be more pleasant.”

  The Beaumont estate? Hadn’t Cecelia told me that Mary Louise Kent meant to have seen the bandits run to where the Croft and Beaumont estates were?

There was only a fifty per cent chance that the bandits were on Beaumont land – if they had not long moved on.

 But I was bored and desperate to find anything I could do: Why should I not go a little bit hunting and, maybe, catch a couple of bandits to taunt the Met on the way? I had only promised Cecelia that I would stay away from Scotland Yard – and none of its members would be at the Beaumonts’ from what she had said. Therefore, I would not even go behind her back. It was foolproof.

  Cloudia grinned. “Keegan, cousin dear, I think I have the perfect solution for your problem.”

  ***

  Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Marne, France – June 1848

  It was like a dream.

When we had crossed the Channel, had travelled from town to town, it had felt like I hadn’t been me: that my soul had become detached and I had watched someone else on that ship, in that town, in that carriage. When I woke up today, it took me a while to realise that I was not dreaming, that I was just where I was supposed to be.

It didn’t make it less unbelievable though.

Surely, it was quite unfortunate that I was currently stuck in “only” a little village and that we had had to rush a bit through Lille and Creil, but I was still satisfied. I had always longed to see the world beyond the isle. I would not become picky now.

  Cloudia kicked away her blanket and walked to the windows. Lisa would be here any second and pull back the curtains with a slightly heartfelt “Good morning,” and Cloudia really wanted to pre-empt her. They had arrived very late yesterday, and the hour and general exhaustion had prevented her from taking in her surroundings. Full of sleepy excitement, Cloudia pulled on the cord. The curtains opened. The high windows appeared behind them, and through them, she saw…

… rain. Nothing but rain. It was pouring buckets, and Cloudia could not see farther than a metre.

  I had travelled for so long only to arrive in England again.

  She heard the door opening and Lisa coming inside. “Good morning, Lady Cloudia,” she said and closed the door behind her. “You woke up early today. Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I slept surprisingly well. The carriage drive got the best of me. Fourteen hours are far too long,” Cloudia replied, not taking her eyes off the windows. “And you?”

“I slept well too. It is such a pity that still nobody has tried to make carriages faster or to find a good replacement for them. Do you think Baron Salisbury may be interested? After all, his company developed special train engines for the sole purpose of reducing the transportation time for some beetroots,” said Lisa and went to the bathroom. “I’ve prepared a bath,” she announced when she came back a few minutes later.

“Thank you,” Cloudia said, not making a move to step away from the windows.

“Is it really that interesting outside?”

“It’s just a very familiar sight,” Cloudia answered and finally turned away to follow Lisa into the bathroom. “I doubt that Milton would be interested. His company focuses, after all, on food transport and not on developing machinery for the broad public. We might have a chance if we all were to turn into beetroots overnight.”

Cloudia undressed and stepped into the bathtub. A sigh escaped her lips when she sat down and was engulfed by the warm water. There was nothing better than a warm bath to loosen up tense muscles, and hers were certainly tense after yesterday. The carriage ride had been dreadfully exhausting and dinner had been both pleasant and a complete mess: pleasant because most attendees had been too tired to engage in proper conversations; a complete mess because, for example, Cedric had become so sleepy midway through that he had nearly fallen face-first into his soup, and Kamden had tried to eat his soup with a fork.

“Speaking of the Baron,” Lisa began, pouring more hot water into the bathtub. “Now that we are here, how do you feel about him being here as well?”

Cloudia sank a bit deeper into the water.

“Before, it was only an idea, then a fact lying in the distant future you did not have to pay much attention to. Now, we are here because of Her Majesty and there is this unknowing outsider lurking around.”

“You sound like the Duke. Milton is harmless and won’t be a hindrance,” said Cloudia.

Thin-lipped, Lisa put some flowers and herbs into the water to make it smell nice. “Lady Cloudia, I do not believe that the Baron will be a hindrance because he will bother everyone all the time. I believe he will be a hindrance because you got along rather well until he proposed to you and you declined. Then, he left for a few weeks, only to invite you to his crumbling villa and pretend that nothing happened before he vanished for eighteen months. This sounds like one of the ridiculous romance novels Al likes to read.”

Cloudia groaned. “I know you don’t like the Duke, but sometimes I think you could be the best of friends. This is one of those times.”

Lisa rolled her eyes.

“I saw that,” said Cloudia. “Why should Milton’s presence bother me? He misunderstood something, he proposed, I rejected him and never regretted it. And it doesn’t seem as if it hurt him all too much. Now, please let go of this nonsense and go read something for half an hour. You can ask Newman if he can lend you one of his romance novels.”

Lisa leaned against the washbasin. “Very well. One more thing regarding Baron Salisbury: I have never liked him, to be honest –”

“Who would have guessed.”

“– but even to me it seemed very unlike him to stare at Al like that in Dover.”

“I agree. It was odd, but I suppose Milton was simply surprised. If you see someone who looks like Newman, you usually do not expect them to be butlers. Or, in turn, if you imagine a butler, you do not think of someone who looks like him.”

Lisa shrugged. “Until I get some proper reason for his behaviour out of Baron Salisbury, I will dislike him a bit more than before. How’s the water?”

“Fine. How are the rooms in the servants’ tract?”

“They are acceptable. However, while you and the others inhabit the manor’s actual guest rooms, we sleep where the actual servants sleep. As they are going to return by the end of the month, they left quite a bit, and it’s very compelling to look through their stuff. One maid left her diary.”

“Oh, the temptation.”

“I mean: If her diary was so important to her, if what she wrote in it was so secretive, she would not have left it in the open, would she?”

“She may be a very forgetful maid,” Cloudia suggested.

“She left it in the open, Lady Cloudia! The maid meticulously packed all her other belongings and put them away, but the diary was lying on her desk when I came. That does not sound like she’s a very forgetful person.”

“She may have been angry that she had to leave for a month. Perhaps, it’s going to explode when you open it. Or, a less destructive option: Maybe there are ghosts in this house and the diary is her chaos record and warning?”

“Let’s hope nothing is going to explode,” Lisa said and whipped out the diary from her dress pocket.

“Lisa Greene, didn’t you say that you are only intrigued about taking their things?”

“I said that ‘it’s very compelling’ which it is. I have never said that I still haven’t given in to the temptation. To give me the littlest amount of credit, I have not taken a look inside it.”

Cloudia smiled and shook her head. “Because you wanted to share its contents with me? To make me your partner in crime? Your accomplice in this breach of privacy?”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “So you are not interested?” she asked, flipping open the diary. “That’s good: no explosion.”

“I want to say that I am not interested, but I would be lying. I’ve always thought that pouring your feelings, thoughts, and secrets into a little, easy-to-steal book is a very idiotic thing to do. Of course, I would not want anyone to go through my things,” Cloudia sat up a bit in the bathtub, “but the possibility of this diary being a ghost record is certainly alluring.”

“I knew that you would say this,” Lisa remarked and paged up to the beginning. She opened her mouth to begin reading, but quickly closed it and skimmed through the diary with a frown on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“It says ‘diary’ on the cover, but…” Lisa flipped back to the first page and showed it to Cloudia. The first page did not start with Dear diary… or Something terrible is going on in this manor. Instead, the very first page had nothing written on it but The Maid’s Manifesto in beautiful cursive.

“It’s a guidebook?” said Cloudia, and Lisa nodded and closed the “diary.”

“This notebook is filled with recipes and instructions on how to make beds and fold serviettes. There are even notes about the food preferences of every member of the de Charbonneau family. Apparently, Baronne de Charbonneau is allergic to strawberries. It’s a bit insulting that the maid left this for me. ‘I do not think that you know how to make beds; therefore, I have written a manual for you, blockhead!’”

“Very anticlimactic,” Cloudia commented and dived back into the water.

“That’s how it is sometimes,” said Lisa and stuffed the notebook back into her pocket. “And now, let us get your hair washed and this bath wrapped up before you get wrinkly.”

  ***

  Nearly an hour later, I descended the stairs to the dining room. I had dismissed Lisa so that she could join Newman – and perhaps, Wentworth and some other servants – for their own breakfast. Although the memories of last night were hidden behind a veil of sleepiness, I hoped that I was still able to find my way through the corridors on my own.

After I had walked down the wrong set of stairs twice and had to ascend them again, I had to think of the Layton Art Gallery: The château was a godawful mess of a place. At least, unlike the gallery, it would cease to be one when I became familiar with it. No matter how often I had gone to the gallery, I had never been able to figure it out.

  After a few more wrong turns, Cloudia finally found the right flight of stairs – on which Cedric was sitting. Frowning, she approached him and saw that he was grumpily nibbling on one of his bone-shaped biscuits.

“What are you doing here?” she asked and sat down next to him.

“I have taken a glimpse into hell: It is a mansion with an abundance of stairs and doors and no signs,” said Cedric, staring ahead of him with glassy eyes. “My soul has left my body. Forevermore, it will slumber in room 1046 while my body resides here…”

“The dining room is downstairs and to the right.”

He threw the biscuit down. “Dammit!”

“What did the poor biscuit do to you?”

“Nothing.” He leaned forward and picked it up. “I’m sorry, my friend,” Cedric said to the biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth. Cloudia grimaced.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked after he had swallowed down.

“It was on the ground!”

Cedric shrugged. “I’ve eaten worse. So… downstairs and to the right?” He got up and held out his hand for Cloudia. She took it and let herself be pulled up, and in this instant, Kamden appeared at the foot of the stairs and waved to them before walking up.

“There you are! Everyone is waiting for you,” Kamden told them.

“Then we should hurry,” said Cloudia and linked arms with him.

Cedric frowned. “How did you manage to be punctual, Kamden?”

“I wanted to go to Cloudie first, and on my way, I met Miss Lisa who seemed quite mad. She said that she found a handbook in her room that was not what she expected it to be. I asked her if I could take a look. We inspected it and found out that it is not as useless as she had believed it to be: It turned out that the handbook contains a thorough map of every passage and every room of the château,” Kamden said. “Apparently, Baron Lambert de Charbonneau who commissioned the manor was paranoid and wanted his home to resemble the inner workings of the Pyramids of Giza. For the same reason, he ordered for the manor to be built here where his only neighbours would be the birds and the people in the village nearby. He was ridiculed by other noblemen, but, according to Miss Lisa’s handbook, he must have turned in his grave in joy when the revolution happened. When King Louis XIV had ordered for all nobles to live with him at Versailles, nobody had bothered to make sure that Lambert de Charbonneau and his family would come too as nobody had been eager to search for them in this labyrinth. Thus, the Baron’s descendants were saved when the revolution came.”

  This explained the Duponts’ eagerness to get their hands on the château: In the unlikely case that we were attacked, the manor’s architecture would protect us – or work against us if we had not got used to it by then. I should not forget to ask Lisa if she could lend me the Maid’s Manifesto later.

  “Very impressive,” Cedric remarked, and Kamden cleared his throat. “I have found you, but Milton still isn’t there. Has any of you seen him?”

“If Milton is not in his room or in the dining hall, I suppose he is in the library,” Cloudia suggested, and Kamden nodded.

“I’ve passed the library earlier,” said Cedric. “I should have taken a look – especially considering that you might have been there as well, Countess.”

Cloudia’s eyes widened as she suddenly remembered something. “Will you be able to find it again?”

“I guess?”

“I hope so because Milton and rain is not a good combination.”

  How could I forget this? I should have thought of it when I had pulled back the curtains and seen the rain.

  “What do you mean?” Cedric wanted to know.

She looked down the stairs, then back to Kamden and Cedric. “We have no time for explanations. I would like to go with you, but, at least, I have to hurry to breakfast. I need to greet my relatives. And you should hurry to the library to make sure Milton’s all right.”

Gently, Kamden unlinked his and Cloudia’s arms. “I will go with Kristopher.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Now, quick. We have no time to lose.”

  ***

  ~Cedric~

 What was with Milton and rain for Cloudia to get concerned? It rained so often in England; thus, it could not be something too serious, right? Especially considering that Wentworth was – at least, according to Cecelia – Milton’s “shadow,” and if he had not gone to get him or to attend to him, it really could not be very dramatic, right?

More curious than worried, I traced my way back to the library with Kamden. All the way I hoped that I was not misremembering anything, that I would be able to return to the dining hall, and that Milton was actually in the library. It would be quite a waste if he was not.

I was relieved when I found the door with “Bibliothèque” written above it again. I pushed open the heavy door and was met with yet another labyrinth. That Lambert de Charbonneau had truly been very meticulous with his plans. Rubbing my head, I walked inside – Kamden right by my side –, and after a few turns, I felt something tugging at my jacket and had to sneeze.

  Cedric turned around and saw a little girl standing in front of him: She seemed to be between seven and nine years of age, had unruly, red-brown hair, and big blue eyes. She smiled at him, took hold of her lavender-coloured dress, and briefly curtsied.

“Hello, I am Anaïs Dupont,” she said with a slight accent. “Claudette told me that I would find you here.”

“Claudette? Oh, you mean the Countess.” Cedric sneezed again and rubbed his nose. What was wrong with him?

“Bless you,” said Kamden.

“Thank you.”

Anaïs nodded. “Claudette told me that you went to look for Baron Salisbury, Your Grace, Mr Bonham. I offered to help because the library is very confusing, and she said that all I had to do was ‘find the man with the long, weirdly coloured hair.’”

“I want to protest, but I have to admit that she is right.” Cedric tugged at his ponytail. “Anyway, you do not have to be so formal when you are addressing me. ‘Kristopher’ is fine.”

“And ‘Emyr’ is fine to me,” said Kamden.

“Very well, Duke Kristopher, Mr Emyr,” Anaïs said and walked ahead.

“I would say that Baron Salisbury is in the seating area, don’t you think?” she asked, turning her head back to them every now and then.

“I guess so, yes,” Cedric said, trotting after her and sneezing again. Was it so dusty in the library? But if it was, why weren’t Kamden and Anaïs sneezing too? “I have a question, Anaïs: Are you the little sister of that frowning, knife-throwing boy?”

She giggled. “Aurèle? He is my cousin. I have a little brother, Gérard, who is three. There are also Jacques and Arnaud who are Aurèle’s younger brothers. You will meet them at breakfast,” Anaïs told Cedric and Kamden before she jumped up excitedly. “Look, Duke Kristopher, Mr Emyr! Is that Baron Salisbury?”

Cedric followed her gaze to an armchair. It was standing in front of a window; outside, the rain had become even stronger. Milton was sitting on the armchair; there was a pile of papers and a notebook on his lap, but he was not staring at them: He was staring at his left arm while he pressed his right hand to his chest.

Cedric stepped towards him. “Milton? Are you all right?”

Milton flinched and craned his head to him, staring first at him, then at Anaïs for a few seconds; his eyes were wide, his face ghostly pale. When he saw Kamden, Milton shook his head and rubbed his face. When he had put his hands down again, the expression on his face had already eased back to his normal one. “I am sorry if I made you worried, but I am fine,” he said and smiled at Cedric.

He sneezed again and said, “You were not looking fine to me.”

Milton sorted his papers and stuffed them into the notebook. “It’s just… I do not have a very strong heart. It is nothing serious I swear, and nothing has happened since I was a child, but… but the last time something did happen, it rained. And now, every time it rains, the memory of the feeling I had back then returns. It is simply a ‘ghost feeling’ and nothing worrisome,” he informed them, still smiling, but when Milton got up, his notebook in his hand, the movement still visibly strained him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cedric saw Kamden shifting slightly towards Milton, though he did not take any step to him.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting. The next time I do not arrive on time, you can simply start without me. Also, thank you, Kristopher and Emyr, for still having been so kind to look for me,” Milton continued.

“Well, we did not find you though. The little lady over there did,” said Cedric and looked at Anaïs who stared at Milton with glittering eyes.

  Huh? Had I missed something?

  Cedric was about to say something when Anaïs blurted out, seemingly incapable of keeping her words within herself any longer, “Baron Salisbury, are you a faerie?”

The confusion within Cedric grew stronger, his understanding of the situation lessened, and in his perplexed state, he did not know what to say; the events had rendered him speechless, and Cedric was certain that if Cloudia was here, she would be thoroughly amused.

Apparently, Milton did not suffer from temporary speech loss as Cedric did. That’s why he was able to kneel in front of Anaïs and say, “I am afraid that we have not been properly introduced to each other. I am Milton, and I suppose you are Miss Anaïs Dupont?”

Anaïs’ eyes widened. “You know my name?”

“Lady Cloudia has given me a list of all your names in advance. Now tell me, Miss Anaïs, why do you believe me to be a faerie?”

“Because you look like one!” she exclaimed. “In my books, faeries are described to look very fair and delicate and sometimes to have green eyes.”

“Uh, well, you see, Miss Anaïs,” Milton began bashfully. “I have to disappoint you: I am not a faerie. I do not even have green eyes – they are hazel. The light here must tint them more green than brown right now. Kristopher has green eyes though. Did you ask him whether he was a faerie?”

“No, I did not because Claudette said that his hair – and I do not mean to be offensive or unkind; I simply recite what she has told me – is not washed very often, and even though faeries are creatures of nature, they are supposed to be impeccable. Also, he does have very striking green eyes, but they look too unnatural to belong to a forester,” Anaïs said, and Cedric groaned. “I do wash my hair. This is its natural colour,” he said and sneezed.

“I am sorry, Miss Anaïs, but neither Kristopher nor I are faeries. We may have disappointed you, but I do wish you all the best in your search – and so does Kristopher and even Emyr, I assume,” said Milton and stood up, still a little bit shaky. “Also, I think we should hurry to the dining hall. We have kept the others waiting long enough, and Kristopher is in dire need of a cup of tea: He seems to have caught a cold.”

“I was fine until a few minutes,” Cedric said, rubbing his nose.

“Colds can be deceitful,” Anaïs stated with a serious face before she turned to Milton. “Well, you may not be a faerie,” she said, boldly taking Milton’s hand, “but you do look like one, Baron Milton. This alone may convince Jacques that faeries may really exist.” She dragged him forward. “Come! I cannot wait to see Jacques’ face! And, of course, to finally have breakfast and get Duke Kristopher his tea!”

With no protest, Milton let himself be dragged through the corridors by Anaïs, and Cedric and Kamden followed them.

  Something told me that our stay here would be far from boring.

  ***

  “There you are. We were about to begin to believe that the château swallowed you whole,” said Cloudia when Cedric, Kamden, Milton, and Anaïs entered the dining hall. Silently, Kamden went to occupy the chair to her right.

Last evening, the food displayed on the table had been scarce as their hosts had known that, while they had been undoubtedly hungry, they had also been very, very exhausted. Now, it was richly laid, and seeing all the food made Cedric’s stomach grumble. He sat down on the empty chair to Cloudia’s left and briefly looked around the hall, saw Aurèle scowling at him from the opposite side. He, Anaïs, and the spectacled boy to whom she was dragging Milton and who was sitting to Aurèle’s right, Jacques Cedric assumed, had hair in various shades of brown; however, the little boy to Aurèle’s left, presumably Arnaud, had black hair and piercing blue-green eyes. The instant Cedric and the others had come in, he had turned his head to them and fixed his eyes on Anaïs. He was still watching her, and Cedric followed his gaze to see Anaïs talking rapidly to Jacques in French, he answering her, they taking turns looking at Milton, and Milton looking very out of place and fumbling with his stuffed notebook.

It was quite a sight.

“Why did you even make such a fuss about Milton?” Cedric asked, leaning to Cloudia. “He only gets ‘ghost pain’ from the rain after all. I’ve expected something more dramatic. For example, that he is actually a very confused werewolf, changing to his were-form when it rains and not when there’s a full moon…”

“I think you need to eat something,” she said, handing the butter to him. “You always become more nonsensical when you are hungry.”

Cedric took the butter from her. “Definitely. Where are your ‘aunts and uncles,’ the rest of your distant relatives? The Comte and Comtesse? The Baron and Baronne? Will they come later, or at all? Will the enigmatic Marquis come too? And where is Cecelia?”

“What an awful lot of questions.”

“Apparently, hunger does not only make me more ridiculous but also very noisy.”

Cloudia put a raisin roll on her plate. “Anselme, Sylviane, Amélie, and Firmin have already eaten. They like to get up early, and because they do not want to disturb their children, they eat breakfast separately. If possible, they usually eat lunch and dinner together. About the Marquis… I told you about his condition yesterday, don’t you remember?”

“Frankly, I don’t. I’m not even sure if I was anywhere else but in that damned carriage yesterday.”

She sighed. “The Marquis is eighty-six years old and not in the best condition. Amélie and Anselme were against him coming here, but he did not want to hear any of it. He is the only one who knows where the Clockmaker is, and he does not want anyone to find out as long as it’s not absolutely necessary: He has not even told his own children. The Marquis will entrust the Clockmaker’s location to one of us, presumably me, and that’s it. Considering his state, I doubt he will leave his room during our stay.”

“How unfortunate. I really wanted to meet him even if I think that he is scary. And what about Cecelia?”

“She needs more time to collect herself. Cecelia has a bit of trauma regarding overly long carriage drives,” Cloudia told Cedric who nodded and looked away from her and ahead, seeing Aurèle still staring at him while he layered white cheese on bread.

“Do I have something on my face?” Cedric asked. Aurèle ignored him.

  At least at breakfast, I had been free of Miss Greene and her piercing stares; now there was her male French counterpart to irritate me.

  Apparently finished with their argument, Jacques returned to his breakfast while Milton hastily sat down next to Kamden, and Anaïs took place next to Arnaud, albeit a little grumpy. Her mood instantly turned around when she sat down. “Gérard!” she exclaimed, jumped up from her chair, and vanished beneath the table.

A few seconds later, she reemerged with a little boy with slightly tousled light brown hair and blue eyes. Anaïs said something to Aurèle that Cedric could not understand before she seated her little brother and a servant came to help her clean his hands and comb his hair. When they were finished, Anaïs clapped her hands together.

“It’s a bit late – you have already started eating after all – but have the others, apart from Aurèle of course, introduced themselves to you, Baron Milton, Duke Kristopher, Mr Kamden? If yes, I have not noticed it.”

“Well, I would have introduced myself to His Grace and Mr Bonham if you had not hindered me with your faerie business, Anaïs,” Jacques pointed out before he briefly bowed. “I am Jacques Beauchene, nice to meet you,” he said. Unlike his brother or cousin, he had no accent at all. “The boy next to Aurèle is my younger brother Arnaud.” Arnaud waved at them.

“And my fiancé,” Anaïs added, beaming. “Finally, that’s” – she pinched Gérard’s cheek – “my little brother Gérard. He is usually with Maman or our governess Josseline, but I begged for him to join us because we were unable to see you yesterday.”

“Hello,” Gérard said in his little voice and waved.

“So, as we are all here,” said Anaïs, her eyes shining with something ill-boding. “How did you all meet Claudette?” She turned to Kamden. “Mr Emyr! Can you start?”

Kamden stopped in his movement and very slowly looked up. In this moment, he reminded Cedric of a fawn that was seeing a train for the first time: scared, shaky, and not knowing what this thing in front of him was and what the hell he was supposed to do with it.

“She came into my bookstore,” Kamden said when he regained his voice.

“That’s everything?”

He nodded.

“Oh. Very well… Baron Milton, what about you? How did you meet Claudette?”

Milton put down his knife and clutched his hands together. “Her aunt is a patron at an art gallery where my father used to be one as well. A few years ago, a new exhibition opened. Lady Cloudia accompanied her aunt, and I attended the opening in my father’s stead,” he told her.

“That’s all?” Anaïs pressed.

He smiled. “That’s all,” Milton said and took up his knife again.

Still hopeful to get a wonderfully long and exciting story, Anaïs turned to Cedric. “And you, Duke Kristopher?”

  “She was killing a man in a dark alleyway, and I happened to be there because I had to collect his soul. I told her that I was a Grim Reaper, and she still insisted on starting a partnership with me.”

This was exactly the kind of story Anaïs was seeking – insane and entertaining. Unfortunately, it was not one Cloudia or I could ever tell her.

  “Well, it was incredibly unspectacular,” Cedric began instead. “We were at the party of a noblewoman whose name I have already forgotten – that’s how unspectacular it was.”

Anaïs let her shoulders sink. “I see.”

“That story may be wholly uninteresting,” he continued with a grin which earned him a frown and a glare from Cloudia, “but I have better stories about the Lady to tell.”

Anaïs’ eyes glowed. “Oh, please tell them, Duke Kristopher!”

“If I may have a word,” Cloudia said, her voice carrying loudly through the hall. She looked at Cedric. “No.”

“All that build-up for a simple ‘no’?”

“Brevity is the soul of wit. If you want me to elaborate, I will.” She cleared her throat. “No.”

“You did not elaborate on it at all.”

“Of course, I did. I elaborated on the intensity. The stress. The pronunciation.”

Anaïs giggled. “You two get along so well! Claudette, please, one harmless little story?”

“If she does not want to, you should respect her wish and stop pestering her,” Jacques said and stood up. “It’s not very polite. And if you may excuse me for a few minutes, my glasses are slightly dirty and I have forgotten my special handkerchief in my room.”

“I know… but are you not curious?”

“Curiosity should never lead to a breach of privacy, Anaïs,” said Jacques and left the dining hall.

“But…”

Aurèle groaned. “We should let Cloudia decide. If she is fine with one… uh… short harmless story, that will be all we will hear. If she is not… then we will talk about something else. Cloudia?”

Cloudia was silent for a while before she ultimately sighed and said, “Only if he tells me beforehand which one. And only one.”

“That will be enough!” exclaimed Anaïs happily. “Duke Kristopher, which story do you pick?”

Cedric looked at Cloudia who raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. There were many stories he could tell, but most he wanted to share were intersected with Watchdog work – their charade in St Margaret’s Chapel, how they were standing on that ledge outside the Salisbury Villa, how she took him to meet the Queen, how she killed Maven von Brandt… – and, thus, were not ones Cedric could tell in the presence of Milton. Then, there were the ones that were too ridiculous to tell: tracking down Dahlia Duke, how they sneaked into a Christmas party, how they hid zucchinis on the Lincolns’ porch…

Fortunately, Cedric had never intended to share any of those events.

“The picnic in Wales,” he answered, smiling at the memory.

“I hate you very much for this, but please go on.”

His smile widened. “Last year, the Lady and I were in Wales and, one day, I decided that it was the perfect day to go out into the wild and have a picnic. And while we were eating, I managed to make her laugh genuinely – by, you will never believe it, telling her one of the worst jokes possible.”

“What joke was it? Please, please, Duke Kristopher, what joke did you tell Claudette?” begged Anaïs.

“As I have said, we were having a picnic in Wales,” Cedric continued. “I asked the cook of the place where we were staying to prepare a few things for us. One of them was Glamorgan sausage. It is some kind of sausage which is not made out of meat but of cheese. The cook was very talented; therefore, the sausage tasted really delicious – and I jokingly said ‘Ah, I would like to marry him but I can’t.’ The Lady wanted to know why I couldn’t marry him after I told her that it wasn’t for the reason she believed it was – and I answered: ‘Because I found out that he’s a really cheesy guy.’”

Arnaud and Anaïs chuckled. “You made her laugh with that?” she said.

“Only because I had a terrible headache at that time,” Cloudia defended herself.

“No headache in the world can make someone laugh so hysterically at a pun as you did back then,” Cedric countered.

“Of course, it can’t. You may recall that, at that time, I did not only have a headache but was also on the verge of having a sunstroke because of a certain someone who insisted to take me out for a picnic when the sun was at its zenith in the middle of summer – and I hope you haven’t forgotten what happened afterwards.”

“What happened afterwards?” Anaïs wanted to know.

“He nearly got me killed, and I had to spend most of our time in Wales in bed recovering.”

Milton choked on his food, and Kamden clapped him on the back while staring at Cedric. Aurèle scowled at him with an intensity so fierce that it might surpass Lisa’s scowls. Even little Gérard could not believe what he had heard and looked at Cedric with wide eyes.

“What is going on?” Jacques asked when he re-entered the dining room. His glasses were now polished and nicely reflected the light from the chandeliers.

“Duke Kristopher once murdered Claudette!” Anaïs answered.

“You forgot to say ‘almost,’ Anaïs,” Arnaud told his fiancée.

“Oh, yes, right – he almost killed our Claudette!”

Jacques looked at Cedric. “How could you even try to harm our cousin?” Then, he let his gaze wander to Cloudia. “And why are you still talking to someone who almost got you killed?”

“I did not actively try to get her killed,” Cedric protested. “We went picnicking, and she carelessly put down her hat and didn’t put it on for hours – and she neglected her health again by not drinking enough.”

“Are you trying to blame me for what happened?”

“I am trying to defend my honour here. Unlike you, I have to do this all on my own, Lady Phantomhive. After all, I don’t have an army of cousins. To be honest – do you have more cousins hidden somewhere? The next time, you make Milton, Emyr, and me accompany you to Latin America because your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother’s favourite aunt was Paraguayan, and you have a million more cousins there.”

“He’s ridiculous,” Aurèle said.

“We should get rid of him,” Jacques added.

“I once read a book about how to make murder look like an accident,” Arnaud proudly told them.

“I read it to him!” Anaïs happily exclaimed.

“Murder!” Gérard yelled, raising his fork into the air.

“I am so glad that you don’t have any Phantomhive relatives,” Cedric said to Cloudia who ignored him and chuckled at her cousins. “You are too sweet, but I cannot let you kill the Duke,” she said, taking a sip from her tea. “Because that is my privilege.”

Aurèle grinned. “Of course, Claudette. But if you… if you need help, you can count on us.”

“Always,” Anaïs added.

“Aren’t you forgetting the Earl, Kristopher?” Milton remarked after he could breathe again and had thanked Kamden.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course, the Earl. His presence is so thin that I keep forgetting that he exists,” Cedric replied and he hoped that his words had not come out of him too hastily.

“Also…” Milton started, paused, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

“What do you want to say, Milton?” asked Kamden.

Milton cleared his throat. “I want to say that it was a really nice story, Kristopher.”

Aurèle raised his eyebrow but did not say anything. “It was?” said Cedric.

“Yes, of course,” Milton replied, fiddling with a serviette. “Sure, it was unfortunate how things turned out in the end, but at the beginning, you looked so happy to tell us about the picnic. You must truly cherish this memory despite its ending, don’t you? I think it’s good that you can still enjoy thinking about that time. Bad things often overshadow the good ones – and you two seemed to have had such a good time in Wales; it would be so sad if you only ever focused on the one bad thing that occurred. Especially as it was not the fault of neither of you.” He made a pause. “No… simply forget that I have ever spoken if it does not bother you too much. I am sorry.”

“Uh… well…” stammered Cedric before he gave up on saying anything. He had no idea what to respond to Milton anyway.

For the rest of the breakfast, Milton did not say a single word although everyone else was talking boisterously and over one another; and every time, Cedric glanced into his direction, he also saw Aurèle scrutinising him.

  ***

  ~Cloudia~

 “Well, that was probably the most chaotic breakfast of my life,” said Cedric. Right after they had finished eating, Anaïs and Arnaud had gone to bring Gérard to Sylviane, his and Anaïs’ mother, and to see Babette. Jacques had announced that he would head to the library now, and Aurèle had vanished to go outside – presumably to practice throwing in a much safer place than in the corridor. Kamden and Milton had left with Cloudia and Cedric to go to their respective rooms but were walking a few paces behind them because Milton had been the one to close the door.

“That means a lot considering that I am not the youngest anymore,” Cedric continued.

“Really? You have never experienced even more chaotic breakfasts?” Cloudia said. “The bread did not go up in flames? A servant did not triple and spill a whole can of milk over your grandmother? Nobody ever bit into a roll so hard that they lost a tooth? The cook was never so tired that he misunderstood ‘croissants’ as ‘cross’ and ‘saints’ and prepared a very holy breakfast surprise?”

“You cannot tell me that you have actually experienced these things.”

She shrugged. "I don’t have to. Poor John can tell you how he was fired after angering Grandmother Hortense. Clarissa can tell you how she lost a tooth – thankfully it was only a milk tooth – to a centuries-old roll that somehow sneaked its way into the bread basket. If he was still alive, Maynard could tell you how he was fired after he was out with his friends for so long that he was too sleepy to work properly the next morning.”

“You are making this up.”

“I could never. All I said was born out of breakfasts had during the annual three-day family gathering at Grandmother Hortense’s. Do not get me started on stories concerning lunch or dinner!”

“Hah!” Cedric exclaimed and jumped up and down. “You are lying! I have never heard of an annual family reunion of yours! Last year you did not attend such a thing!”

“Grandmother Hortense is not particularly fond of me and only ever invites me every other time. Sometimes I cannot go because I have Watchdog duties to attend to.”

“That does not prove any–”

“Lady Cloudia, there you are,” said Lisa when she approached them. “I guess Mr Emyr has already told you about the Maid’s Manifesto?” She took it out and opened it. “Hah! What I thought to be completely useless and outright insulting ultimately turned out to be very, very helpful. This place is an architectural mess and without a map or having become fully familiar with the building due to haunting its floors for years, you would be lost. I doubt anyone would ever be able to find your corpse in here.” Lisa sighed. “Unfortunately, the Maid’s Manifesto was more of an exception than the starting point of a new surprising rule,” she added with a sideways glance at Cedric.

“Very funny, Miss Greene.”

“How was breakfast with the other servants?” asked Cloudia.

  I had already a bit of a headache; I did not need it to become worse.

  “It was fine. The servants of the Duponts and Beauchenes do not speak English, though. The only exception is, according to Mr Wentworth, the governess Josseline Manaudou, but she does not eat with us. This creates a bit of a barrier – at least, for me. Still, Al, Mr Wentworth, and I ate together while the others where bundled among themselves.

“Al and Mr Wentworth talked for quite some time and they get along very well. It surprised me a bit as Al usually shies away from conversations, and people shy away from him. Mr Wentworth does not seem to mind though – unlike his charge.”

“This again? Simply ask Milton about it. He is right behind us.”

“Oh, yes. I doubt that he would refuse to answer or that he would give a dishonest response,” Cedric said. “Milton strikes me as the kind of person who would gladly answer all your questions as truthfully as possible. Of course, only if he knows the answer and as long as it’s not too intrusive.”

“Nobody who is in their right mind would answer such questions. This says absolutely nothing about his character.”

“May I interrupt?” Milton suddenly said, having approached them as silently as a cat. “I am afraid, but I involuntarily overheard bits and pieces of your conversation. I am very sorry, but…” He turned to Lisa. “Miss Greene, are you referring to the incident in Dover? I did not mean to stare at Mr Newman; my surprise got the best of me. I am very sorry. I truly did not mean to make him uncomfortable in any way. Being stared at for such things is awful. I know that.” Milton sighed. “I will apologise to Mr Newman as soon as possible. I will definitely do so sometime today. I should have done it sooner. I am very sorry.”

“I… I think Al will appreciate it,” Lisa replied, clearly taken aback by his words.

“I do hope so,” he said. “Now, with the whole day ahead of us…” – Milton put a hand on his chest and smiled – “and the rain ceased, have you already made any plans for today?”

  No matter what I had said to Cedric and Lisa, Milton was a bit of a hindrance. Nanteuil-la-Forêt was a small village and every new face would instantly become subject to gossip. We were a large group of people, and if we went there together, it would be even more eyebrow-raising than when only one or two of us go. The same would apply when we took turns going to the village.

And even more, if we went there looking like nobles.

The latter part should not be a problem with Milton – he would certainly be fine with disguising himself. The first part, however, might be tricky. Keeping an eager traveller and explorer away from Nanteuil-la-Forêt could not come without problems.

Under different circumstances, I could not care less if he went to the village or not – but if we caused too much a stir, it might alert Townsend and endanger the mission.

  “Have you already made any plans for today?” Cloudia countered.

“Bram and I were contemplating exploring the nature around here a bit. Apart from that, I have a lot of work to do before my meeting in a few days. I thought about doing my paperwork in the salon or library.”

  Evidently, I was absolutely wrong. Milton was as easy to handle as I had claimed.

  “Are you not afraid of getting lost?” asked Cedric.

“Not quite. Are you interested in coming along?”

“Oh, no. I get lost all the time, and I am not a fan of forest strolls.”

“You could ask Firmin – Baron Beauchene – if he wants to accompany you,” Cloudia suggested. “Amélie said that he is very interested in the wildlife here and that he has been here once before. And I believe Emyr would like to join as well.”

She looked at Kamden, and the gaze he returned to her told her that he had understood: Milton had said that he and Wentworth would only walk around the forest, but if they were to change their minds, it was his job to stop them.

“I would come myself,” Cloudia continued, “but I promised His Grace to pay a visit to Nanteuil-la-Forêt with him. It is a little, unremarkable village, but even such places can have some hidden charms tucked somewhere in their two streets, I suppose.”

Milton smiled. “Villages always do, not only hidden between two streets. Maybe we will head to the village as well later. Until then… Emyr, do you want to ask Baron Beauchene with me whether he is interested in joining us or not?”

“Sure,” Kamden replied. “Let us talk later, Cloudia, Kristopher. Miss Lisa.”

Kamden and Milton said their goodbyes and walked back to a staircase they had passed earlier; Lisa had consulted the Manifesto, and, apparently, that was the best route to get to the Beauchenes’ rooms.

“What a splendidly useful guide you have there, Miss Greene!” Milton had said before he had wished them a good time in Nanteuil-la-Forêt and gone away with Kamden.

“So, my dear Duke,” Cloudia said when they arrived at her room and she pushed open the doors.

“It is time for us to get changed. We will meet here in thirty minutes. Not a second later, you understood?”

  ***

  “Thanks for taking us with you, Mr Cuvier,” Cloudia said in French against the wind when, thirty-five minutes later, they were driving from the château to the village.

“You are welcome, Lady Cloudia!” Denis Cuvier replied. Cloudia had partially anticipated that she and Cedric would have to walk all the way to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. To their luck, Denis had been ordered to go down for shopping by Anselme Dupont – the Marquis’ son, Amélie’s older brother, and the father of Anaïs and Gérard. When Cloudia and Cedric had gone downstairs to head out for their little adventure, they had stumbled over Denis, and he had been so friendly to drive them. At first, he had been unsure whether he should or not as his wagon was not exactly made for the transportation of humans. Cloudia had convinced him that it was fine, and now they were being transported like goods in the back, and Cedric screamed his lungs out, holding on for dear life to the wagon’s side.

“Is His Grace fine?” Denis asked, glancing at Cedric.

“Oh, yes,” said Cloudia. “Undertaker,” she continued in English. “If you do not stop screaming, some passing-by villager may believe that there is a howling monster in the woods and break out a panic. If they catch you, they may try to dissect you.”

Cedric was silent for a moment. Then, he started to whimper.

With a sigh, Cloudia slid down next to him. “What is wrong?”

“This bastard there is driving too damn fast. Why are you fine with it?”

“I had worse carriage drivers. One time, some maniac managed to get me from Quaker Gardens to Soho in twenty minutes. Never tell a hansom driver to go as fast as he can and that he may cross others on the way,” Cloudia told him. “The better question is: Why are you not fine with it? What are you afraid of? You are already dead.”

“First of all, I am very capable of dying again. Second, I would not describe myself as ‘dead.’ I may be a Grim Reaper, but I still have to eat and sleep and do all other essential things humans have to do; I can even get ill – and you know that! If I were dead, I could jump off this damned wagon and come out unscathed. But I am not. I would die again and land before the Great Grim Reaper who would only sigh and say, ‘You again?’”

Cloudia held out her hand. Cedric stared at it.

“Come, take it, and tell me a story. We have already established that you like telling stories after all.”

He glanced one more time at her hand and then at her before he finally took it.

“Wonderful! And now to the story. Tell me whatever you like and what will distract you from Denis’ questionable driving skills.”

Cedric whimpered one more time before he cleared his throat, squeezed her hand, and focused his eyes on Cloudia.

“It started with a desperate man. Once upon a time, that man lived with his wife in a wonderful little cottage. They had wished for a child for a very long time, and when they were finally expecting, they had to face a great problem. As you see, there was a little window at the back of their house which overlooked their neighbour’s garden, and that garden was filled with the most wonderful vegetables and flowers…”

  ***

  “Thank you, Denis,” said Cloudia. They had not quite reached the village now as she thought that it would be better if Cedric and she walked the last few hundred metres on their own. Nobody had to know that they belonged together after all. “Let us meet here in five hours. Is that fine for you?”

“Of course! Goodbye, Lady Cloudia! Your Grace!” And like lightning, Denis was gone.

“What is he feeding his horses?” asked Cedric, leaning against a tree. Her method to distract him had worked – he had gone through the entire fairy-tale without whimpering once –, but now that they were on solid, unmoving ground again, his queasiness had returned.

“I should inquire about it. Thomas may be very interested in it. ‘Power food! Makes your horse run so fast that even Death would rather die than chase it!’”

“I for my part am very interested in keeping my breakfast inside of me. I do like nature, but nobody benefits from it when I share the dozens of croissants I ate with it.” Cedric took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes for a moment before he shoved himself off the tree so that they could resume their journey to the village.

“Do you think Denis will slow down when we have to return?” asked Cedric, circling a puddle. “He has to think of the cargo after all.”

“Earlier, we were the cargo, and you know how it was.”

“But the other cargo, the actual cargo, cannot hold on to something. It would topple out and be ruined.”

“Let’s see what will happen later, okay? Let us focus on our work now.”

“Very well. What do you even mean to do in the village? Question every resident if they are Nicodemus Townsend?”

“Do not be ridiculous, Undertaker,” said Cloudia. “I plan to see the mayor. We say that we were sent from Paris to catch a criminal and that we need his help in this task which will require his absolute discretion. If we are in a particularly bold mood, we may tell him that he will receive a medal if he helps us. People are like magpies – hopelessly attracted to everything that shines.”

“Are you sure that this will work? I don’t think I can pass for a Frenchman if I cannot even speak French.”

“I will say that you are embarrassed about your voice and have to whisper all you want to say into my ear.”

“Cannot we say that I am a foreigner and need a mediator?”

Cloudia looked at him. “The world is slowly shifting together, Undertaker, but villages like Nanteuil-la-Forêt are not very affected by that shift. The people living in such places are not used to foreigners and often do not trust them. If they don’t trust us, how will they aide us in our investigation? Also, Townsend may be a foreigner here too, but it would still seem suspicious if the Parisian police send foreigners to do their job for them. The mayor and nobody else would believe us.”

“But can’t we say that I am… I don’t know… mute? I know a bit of sign language; it might work.”

“I don’t know sign language, though. You need to teach me one day. Until then, we have to push back this charade idea.”

Cedric sighed. “Very well. Then, I will be the detective with the embarrassing voice. Are you happy now?”

“Definitely. How do you want to be called?”

“Hm?”

“Undertaker, we need false names. I don’t want to have to think of ones on the spot. I am, I have to admit, not very good at naming anything, and it will be better if you already know to which name you have to respond when I call you.”

He sighed again and pondered over it for a while. “Jeanne Gauthier for you. Alexandre Vidocq for me.”

“Interesting choices. Wholly unexpected. Why did you choose them?”

Cedric smiled. “I had no particular reason.”

  ***

  After ten minutes, they finally arrived at the village. At first, they kept to alleys, tracing the village more than entering it, but a place like Nanteuil-la-Forêt did not have many dark corners to begin with and soon, Cloudia and Cedric wandered rather openly through the streets.

It was a perfectly ordinary village and every now and then, people stared at them and put their heads together. The gossiping had already begun.

“Do you smell this?” Cedric asked into Cloudia’s ear, sniffing the air. “Cake.”

Cloudia rolled her eyes. Very well. But only because we need to ask someone for the way, she thought, touching her skull pendant necklace.

  I followed Cedric’s keen nose. If one of us should be called a dog, he should be it. It fit more.

  They entered a little bakery, and Cloudia ordered a piece of cherry crumb cake for Cedric.

“Hello, my companion and I are looking for the townhall,” Cloudia told the baker in French after she had handed the cake to Cedric. “May you be so kind as to tell us the way?”

The baker wiped the counter and narrowed his eyes. “I have meant to ask: Who are you? I have never seen you here before, and I am one of the only three bakers here. I have practically seen everyone.”

She smiled at him. “We are simply two strangers passing by.”

For a moment, the baker scrutinised her, and then, he said, “Follow down the main road; then go left. You cannot miss it.”

“Thank you.” Cloudia gestured for Cedric to come, and they quickly walked down the path to the townhall. There, they had to wait quite a while. Not because the mayor was so busy, but because the staff was wondering who those two persons they had never seen before in their entire lives could be.

  Gossip. Cecelia loved it because she could get a lot of information out of it, and I could see its value in this regard, but it was far too tiring for me. Cecelia could handle it. I did not want to have to do anything with it.

  “The mayor will see you now,” the secretary Alain Descombes, a tall man in a well-worn suit, told them. “If you may follow me now.”

Cloudia and Cedric followed their guide to the first floor, and in front of the room at the very end of the corridor, he halted and opened the door for them. He bowed when they entered and closed the door behind them.

“Welcome, Monsieur Vidocq. Monsieur Gauthier,” the mayor said. He walked up to them and shook their hands. “I am the mayor of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Mathieu Guilloux. What can I do for you?”

  After we had parted to get changed, I had put on trousers, well aware that with them and my hair up and hidden beneath a cap, I could pass as a man. It was easier to walk through the streets like that: People were already talking about us, and I did not want them to fantasise over the “unmarried pair walking around the streets solely on their own” too. But when I had told the secretary that I was Jeanne Gauthier, I had not put any effort into lowering my voice. The trousers were a disguise for the street; I had not meant to continue the charade here. However, if they saw pants and apparent short hair and instinctively believed me to be a man…

Part of me wanted to continue this masquerade, wanted me to be “Jean” instead of “Jeanne.” I had done this before and it had gone well. Why not do it again? The rest of me, though, had no interest in pretending to be a man. And, for once, this larger part was louder than the smaller one.

  “It is Mademoiselle Gauthier,” Cloudia corrected him with a smile.

Mathieu Guilloux frowned. “I knew that you were an odd pair – marching into my village and heading straight to me – but now you have become even stranger. A girl in pants!” He shook his head. “Anyway, please take a seat and tell me what you want.”

Cloudia and Cedric exchanged a glance before they followed Guilloux to his desk and sat down on the chairs in front of it. Guilloux himself sat down behind the desk.

“Monsieur Vidocq, why have you come here?”

“Monsieur Vidocq and I have come to Nanteuil-la-Forêt on order of the Parisian police,” Cloudia answered him, still smiling. “Vidocq is a renowned detective there. Unfortunately, he is very embarrassed by his voice, and because of this, he needs me: I am the only one who is allowed to hear his voice and recite what he is saying.”

“So you are his secretary?”

“We were sent here for a highly important case,” Cloudia continued. “A criminal from England has caused quite a riot in Paris and before we could catch him, he fled. We assume that he is hiding somewhere around here.”

Guilloux frowned. “He is hiding here? In Nanteuil-la-Forêt? Unbelievable!”

Her smile widened. “That’s exactly the reason why he is here. Nobody expects a wanted thief to be here.

“Mayor Guilloux, we have come to inform you of our investigation and to ask for your aide in finding the thief. We are certain that with your help, we will be able to find him in no time. The sooner we find and catch him, the sooner Vidocq and I will be gone.”

Guilloux said nothing for a while before the neutral line of his mouth transformed into a grin Cloudia did not like at all. “Mademoiselle Gauthier, so you are saying that Monsieur Vidocq is a renowned detective in Paris?”

She nodded. “Very famous, very talented. Day after day, his brilliance adorns the title pages.”

Guilloux leaned back. “I see, I see. Mademoiselle Gauthier, you may not have noticed it while coming here, but we have our very own criminal lurking around here. In the last two days, two persons have been killed. It is the first time something like this has happened here and my people are in a panic.

“I will help Monsieur Vidocq in finding his thief if he agrees to help me with my murderer. Is this a deal?”

  ***

  I hated this bastard so much. I had tried to argue with him for a while – I had even told him about the prospect of receiving a medal, but it had not helped –, but soon figured out that it was in vain. Guilloux was one of those people whose mind you could not change no matter what you did. After briefly “consulting” Cedric – he had only whispered into my ear how much he disliked the mayor – I had agreed. However, I had made a condition as well: Under no circumstances should he tell anyone that I was, in fact, a woman. It would ruin my disguise on the streets after all.

  Still furious, Cloudia left the mayor’s office with Cedric. Outside, a young woman with light brown hair in a long braid and a gentle face waited for them.

“I am Yvette Guilloux, the mayor’s daughter,” she introduced herself with a curtsy. “I am to guide you through Nanteuil-la-Forêt. Very pleased to meet you, Monsieur Vidocq, Monsieur Gauthier.”

“We are very pleased to meet you as well,” said Cloudia, and Cedric nodded.

“Please follow me down,” Yvette said and led them to the stairs. “I hope Père was not too unfriendly. He can be rather rough sometimes. I hope he did not offend you?”

“Not at all,” Cloudia dryly replied.

Yvette nodded. “Did he tell you something else I have to do? Apart from showing you around?”

“Your father said that you would inform us about the murder case – Vidocq is a detective and agreed to help. What happened?”

She paled. “It is absolutely horrible! Traumatic! Two days ago, Madame Nadia Allemand, an elderly seamstress, was found in her tailor’s shop – with thousands of pins stabbed through her skin! It was an awful sight and nobody knows who it was. It was a shock to all of us. And then, yesterday…” Yvette shuddered. “Dominique Duhamel was found hanging from the church’s roof. He was hanging there with a rope around his head, but his heart had been pierced by a knife…”

She showed them to the backdoor and out. “And, well… We do know who it might have been, but we have no idea who he is exactly.”

Cloudia frowned. “Oh, very interesting. Could you please tell us more?”

“Two days ago, a stranger came here and checked into Maxime Guilbert’s pension. He checked in and vanished on the same day: On the day Madame Allemand’s corpse was found.”

Cloudia leaned towards Cedric so that he could whisper something into her ear.

“What is she saying?” he wanted to know.

“Vidocq would like to see the pension,” said Cloudia, and thought: I will tell you everything later, Undertaker.

  ***

  Maxime Guilbert’s pension was right next to the bakery they had visited earlier. According to Yvette, the baker Basile Duhamel was the father of the second victim.

  It was certainly odd for him to continue working after his son’s gruesome death. Was it because he was dependent on the money or because of something else?

  Guilbert heartily greeted Yvette and after a row of small talk and introductions, he gave her the key to the apparent murderer’s room and told her, Cloudia, and Cedric its number: 245.

“I am a friend of his daughter Marie-Claire,” Yvette told them while they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “She and I used to run around these halls all the time. Now, all we do is drink tea and converse in the kitchen.”

She put the key into its hole when they arrived in front of Room 245. “Maxime said that he did not touch it: Everything is exactly like the stranger has left it. Maxime was afraid to touch the room after what happened, and he stopped Dominique’s mother from destroying it. Poor Solange. Now that you are here, Maxime is especially happy that he has protected the room. He got a few scratches from the fight. At least, now he knows that they were not for nothing.”

The door swung open, and Cloudia and Cedric stepped inside. They walked around, searching for something useful.

The room was ordinarily decorated: There was a rug, a bed, a small desk, a slender wardrobe. From the window, Cloudia could see the façade from a house, and there was a chamber pot beneath the bed. No manipulated tapestry, no loose floorboards.

The wardrobe was empty. The bed was untouched. There was nothing on the desk, not even faint lines that indicated that the stranger had sat down and written something there. The rug was glued to the floor so masterfully that it was impossible to move.

The window was intact and closed. There were no holes in the ceiling and walls, no cracks as well.

The room was absolutely blank.

  ***

  ~Cedric~

 On our way back, Cloudia explained everything to me, but it sounded more like she was talking to herself than to me. After we had gone to the pension, Yvette had led us to the church and to the tailor’s shop. At each place, Cloudia’s frown had deepened, and when Yvette had invited us to tea, I had been able to hear the gears turning inside Cloudia’s head over my chewing.

The case was clearly bothering her. Still, in my eyes, this was no excuse for ditching me as soon as we had arrived at the château. Denis had actually driven slower this time, relieving my soul and stomach, but when Cloudia told me that she would retreat to her chambers now, I still had not the strength to protest.

 The hours passed and after doing nothing in that time, I decided to go out and find out whether she would like to see me now…

  Cedric walked down the corridors, crossing his fingers that he was actually taking the right path when he was promptly grabbed and dragged into an astonishingly beautifully furnished and decorated room.

  Wrong way.

  Very unceremoniously, Cedric was thrown onto an ottoman.

“I would appreciate it if you were to stop doing this,” he said to Cecelia and shifted into a better seating position.

Cecelia shrugged and sat down on a large sofa opposite him. Today, she was wrapped in black silk. From the exhaustion that had apparently been plaguing her earlier was nothing to be seen.

“Rather, you should consider becoming less lost-in-thought and more observant and cautious. Under widely different circumstances, I might have been an intruder sent to cut off all the heads of the residents here. Imagine it! Someone whose sole talent and purpose in life is cutting off and collecting people’s heads! And he was sent after us! How tragic for the world it would be to lose my lovely countenance!”

“I thought you were talking about my head.”

“I will talk about your head when I want to play ball like the shepherd’s children.”

“Cecelia, why am I here?”

“Do you remember the promise you have given to me? Back in April? Please do not say you don’t: I will be tremendously disappointed.”

“It was not a promise when I said that you could ask me another time whether I would like to drink with you.”

“You remembered!” Cecelia exclaimed. “Wonderful. Splendid. Marvellous. Today will be the day you will redeem your promise.” She stood up, walked to her dresser, and inspected her face and hair which sat perfectly.

“I have asked Newman if he was so kind as to organise some beverages and prepare the salon for us. Of course, he was. A very dutiful man. If he was not so devoted to our dear Cloudia, I would take him for myself.”

Cecelia turned towards Cedric and held out her arm to him. He sighed. “Did I ever have a choice?” he said, taking her arm and guiding her out of the room.

“Did anyone ever have one?”

  ***

  “Is there not something you would like to ask me?” said Cecelia, leaning towards him and speaking in a low voice, while she led him to the salon.

“How are you able to navigate through the château so confidently even though you have spent the entire day in your room? This place is a mess!” Cedric replied, shuddering at the hundreds of different staircases they passed. Who was the architect Lambert Charbonneau had employed? Had he gone wild when the Baron had said to create “the most dazzling building” or had he been insane?

Cecelia laughed. “I may have spent my day in my chambers, but I talked to Newman, don’t you remember? I ask him about the way to the salon, and he went to ask Lisa about it. Apparently, the one whose room she currently occupies left her a very remarkable little book. I keep saying this to Cloudia, and now I will say it to you too: I could very well spend the rest of my life in a single room or stitched to a bed or sofa and still be able to acquire all the information I want.

“Now, when I asked whether you have a question or not, I did not prompt you to give me this question. While entertaining, I doubt it is all you have in mind.”

Cedric was silent for a while. “While we were travelling, why were you being so weird towards Milton? For example, why did you make the Countess withhold from him that you would accompany us as well?”

Cecelia tugged on his arm to make him bend down and poked his nose. “I am slowly training you to ask the right questions, and it is working fantastically!

“Well, you have to know, dearest Not-Kristopher, that I do not travel with anyone I have not researched before. When I had to cross the Irish Sea to get to England and marry Michael, I requested him to find out every man’s name who would be on the ship. I had never been on one before, and I did not want to take any risks. Michael gave me all the names and I spent an afternoon finding out everything I could about them. One of them was a wanted axe-murderer who planned to kill everyone on board and steal the ship to escape to mainland Europe. Michael and I reported him, he was arrested, and we could calmly take our journey. Never trust anyone – that incident cemented this for me.

“When Cloudia first began to meet with Milton, I was very eager to dig out everything concerning him. She was not very happy about my plans though and made me promise that I would, as long as they would keep meeting at least, not research Milton. Now, their relationship has not exactly soured, but it took quite a turn after his failed proposal – a very fortunate circumstance because it allowed me to research him now when it became important. I would have never set foot on his damned ship if I had not dipped into the waters of his past and secrets before.”

“So… and why exactly were you being weird towards Milton?”

“How impatient! Is it because I am not Cloudia that you cannot listen to me for more than two sentences?” Cecelia shook her head. “Anyway, while I conducted my research I came across a tiny, but highly interesting rumour.

“As you know, Milton owns a trading company which is primarily focused on food and whose profits significantly increased upon him inheriting it. The other heads of trading companies despise him for that; this hatred infamously peaked in Flavian Hunt conspiring to kill Milton. A few people believe Milton’s success is founded in some dark business.”

Cecelia inspected her fingernails. “He is a weapons smuggler.”

Cedric stared at her. “What?”

“Milton’s innocent, overly friendly aura could not be real; not a second, I believed his little act. Surely, it is only a rumour, a very tiny ember which seems to be going around for a little while now, but still has not sparked a fire.”

“What if it is only a rumour? A rumour planted by some envious rival?” Cedric suggested.

“Of course, this is a possibility. But what sounds more plausible? Nobody has a white soul, and I doubt that Milton has one. If only I could get anything out of Baroness Salisbury…”

“Baroness?! What Baroness…” Cedric interjected, but Cecelia kept on going.

“… and then there are all the other highly suspicious things about Milton and… Oh, look! We have arrived!”

A servant opened the door for them, and they stepped into the salon. Apart from them, only Milton – of all people – was there, hunched over piles and piles of papers in a corner. Cedric had almost missed him.

“Speaking of the devil,” Cecelia whispered to Cedric before she let go of him and headed straight to the table and seating area Newman had prepared for them.

  There was no reason for me to believe Cecelia. Still, I hesitated before I approached Milton.

  Cedric had made only one step towards him when Milton lifted his head. From the door, he had looked far more submerged in his work.

“Hello, Kristopher,” Milton greeted him with a smile when Cedric sat down on a chair opposite him. “I am sorry for the mess.”

“It’s no problem,” Cedric said, glancing at the “mess” he was referring to: There were many large piles of documents, but each pile had been neatly put together. The only thing that was “messy” about them was the fact that they were covering the entire table.

“What brings you here?” Milton wanted to know.

“Cecelia is forcing me to have some drinks with her.”

“I see. I hope you will enjoy yourselves.”

“She certainly will; I, on the other hand, am not sure I…” Cedric glanced at the paper on the very top of the pile closest to him, and for a moment he was confused because of it and did not know why before it dawned upon him that he could not read anything written on it. Not only wasn’t it in English – it did not seem to be any other language.

“Uh… Milton? What is this gibberish?”

“Oh, that…” Milton fumbled with the pen in his hand. “These documents contain classified information. Only those who concerns them should be able to read them, and to make sure that really only the right people can do something with these papers, they are written in code."

  Dammit, Milton. I did not want to believe in Cecelia’s words – I wanted to trust you, but you were not making it easy for me.

  “It is only a silly little security measurement. I guess everyone could break the code if they were dedicated enough…” Milton trailed off.

“Well, I certainly am not. In the end, all I would get would be boring numbers, right?”

“Oh, yes. They are not exactly interesting to everyone…”

Cedric nodded. "So if anyone ever tells you I was stealing your corporate information, you know that they are lying and only want me to look bad.”

Milton chuckled, and to Cedric, it sounded genuine. If he was really a weapons smuggler, shouldn’t his laughs be more pressed? “I will keep that in mind.”

“Very well.” Cedric stood up. “I think I will leave you alone now. You seem to have a lot of paperwork ahead of you…”

Milton looked down on his lap and twisted his pen in his hands. “Uh, not exactly…”

Cedric frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well… I am almost finished for today.” Milton picked up the single piece of paper that he had been balancing on his lap.

Cedric stared at him. “When did you come back from your stroll?”

“Two hours ago.”

“These are like a million papers! And you have worked through them in two hours? How did you even get them in here?”

Milton shyly smiled at him. “A butler, Alphonse Batteux, was so kind as to help me. I think the next time I will work in my room…”

“This is insane. Don’t you have a secretary to help you?”

“No. Even if I had, they would not be here anyway, right? Also…” Milton looked down at his last file. “I like doing paperwork. It’s very calming.”

“Baron, as you are free in a minute, do you want to join us?” Cecelia asked, coming over to them with a grin on her face.

  Her words reminded me of something Milton had said after breakfast: that he would either work in the library or the salon. Who had Cecelia made spy on us for her? Or how had she found the random passing-by servant who had overheard exactly this crucial piece of information on which she could base her entire crazy plan of making me redeem my “promise” to elevate her chances of getting Milton to agree to have some drinks with her so that it would be easier for her to get the pieces of information she wants out of him?

A spy it had been. Definitely a spy.

We were here for barely a day, and Cecelia Williams had already wrapped the staff around her finger.

  “Friendly afternoon drinking does always sound marvellous, and, as we will be having dinner soon, the drinking will not become too heavy. It’s unfortunate, but we have to be presentable after all. The Comte and Comtesse, and the Baron and Baronne will join us, I have heard. We would not want to leave a bad impression, would we? And, Baron, as far as I remember, we have never really talked, and like this, you can continue your conversation with His Grace as well!” Cecelia said without making any pauses to breathe that could allow Milton or Cedric to protest.

Milton put his pen down and clutched his hands together. “Very well. I am not much of a drinker, but if it is only a little bit…”

  Rest in peace, Milton. It was good to have known you.

  Cecelia’s grin widened. “Oh, how wonderful.”

  ***

  “It has come to my ears that you, Mr Bonham, Baron Beauchene, and Wentworth went out into the forest today,” Cecelia said when they were all seated and the butler Batteux had poured each of them a glass of wine.

“Yes, we did,” Milton replied, taking up his glass. “Aurèle joined us as well. Baron B… Firmin was quite happy about this development because, seemingly until now, Aurèle never wanted to accompany his father to one of his nature studying trips. Firmin studies wildlife and plants, you see; he is especially interested in birds.”

  How did someone like Firmin even manage to marry a Dupont? From all Cloudia had told me, it would have made more sense to me if Firmin had been rejected. Or, perhaps, bird-watching was just his hobby?

  “How very interesting.” Cecelia raised her glass to her lips and took a sip. “Your Grace, what are you saying about it?”

“It must have been very nice to have an expert in your group,” Cedric said and glanced at his damned glass.

“It definitely was. Firmin was able to continue filling out his notebook on the nature of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, and we were able to get a university-level lecture on it.”

“Have you ever been to university, Baron?” Cecelia asked.

“I would have loved to, but I could not. I had to help with the company and this took up all my time.”

“How unfortunate. Don’t you think it’s unfortunate, Your Grace?”

Cedric numbly nodded.

“However, with your title and company, a degree would be superfluous. Why should you do something you do not need to do?”

Milton nodded briefly and after twirling the glass in his hand for a while, most likely he was debating whether to drink the wine or not, he raised it to his lips – and drank everything at once.

Cedric stared at him. Even Cecelia was baffled.

Bashfully, Milton put the glass down and clutched his hands. “I am not very fond of the taste of wine – or any kind of alcohol – and prefer to finish it all at once so that I do not have to endure the taste for too long…”

“Are you not hurting yourself in the process?” Cecelia said. “Drinking an entire glass of wine at once is no easy task for many because of this.”

“It does hurt. Like with the taste, I prefer to have to withstand the pain for only a short while though…” Milton paused. “I can drink it normally if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no, do not bother. It is tremendously fascinating. Can you do this with something stronger as well?” Cecelia inquired while pouring whiskey into his glass.

“Uhm… I suppose I could, but I thought we were only drinking lightly?” Milton remarked.

“Oh, one or two glasses of something stronger will be fine! Trust me.” She held his glass to him.

Milton stared at his glass before he hesitantly took it and drank everything at once again.

“Milton… are you fine?” Cedric asked when Milton had put down his glass again. He itched to throw it out. Part of him did want to get closure on the question whether or not Milton was involved in some illegal dealings, but he did not approve of Cecelia’s method of getting this piece of information out of him. Cedric was still sure that Milton would answer that question normally, but how could you embed “Are you an arms smuggler?” into a casual conversation without it becoming awkward?

“I’m very well,” Milton replied, and judging from the look on his face, he was telling the truth. “Thank you for asking. I have just remembered something: How did your visit to Nanteuil-la-Forêt go, Kristopher?”

“It was fine. The Lady and I have not found its inherent magical component, though we did have some cake.”

Milton smiled at him. “You still have time. I hope you will find it eventually.”

Cecelia handed Milton his refilled glass. This time, Cedric had not seen what she had poured into it – and to be honest, he did not want to know.

“It seems as if you are greatly amused by my drinking habits, Marchioness,” Milton said, taking his glass.

“It is a truly fascinating talent and gift. A gift I would love to have to amaze the Ladies of the Gossip Table,” said Cecelia. “Have you shown this talent of yours to others as well, Baron?”

“Please call me ‘Milton,’ Marchioness. And while there are others who know about it, I have never put it on public display.”

“You should! It would stir quite the talk at parties.”

“I do not doubt that it would, though I am afraid that this is not something I would ever do,” he stated and gulped down his glass of unidentified liquid.

Again, when he put it down, he still seemed completely unaffected.

  I had no idea what Cecelia had put into that drink, but she seemed to have had great hopes for it because her face fell momentarily. Something told me that her mixture would have even knocked me out – and I was a Grim Reaper! What was Milton then?

  Cedric stood up. “I think this was enough. Cecelia…” However, before he could get any further, a footman entered the room and bowed. He said something in French that Cedric could not understand, but part of it had sounded like his name…

Whatever the footman had said, it managed to surprise Cecelia for the second time today.

“What did he say?” Cedric wanted to know.

“He said,” Milton told him, “‘Duke Underwood, The Most Honourable Marquis Dupont would like to see you.’”

  ***

  I asked the footman if I could speak to Cloudia first. He said no.

I asked him if he had made a mistake. Again, a no.

I asked if it could wait – the Marquis was an old man, and it was so late. Surely, he would rather rest? No.

I asked if he knew why he wanted me and not Cloudia, his grand-niece? He said no.

I asked if he knew what the Marquis wanted to tell me. No, again.

And then, he stopped answering any of my questions.

 It was highly unnerving. Over and over again, I recalled all the bits and pieces Cloudia had told me about him because I wanted to know who I was about to meet. It did nothing to ease my nerves; instead, it only made everything worse. When the footman opened the door to the Marquis’ rooms and shoved me through it, my nerves were frazzled.

I whispered to the footman that I would refuse the meeting – why had I not done this before? – but he only closed the door behind me.

  The Marquis’ room was decorated like all the others. All was ordinary; only he was not.

He might have been lying on his bed, multiple cushions lifting up his upper body and head, but he might as well have sat on a throne.

“What is your name?” the Marquis asked. Despite his age and ill countenance, his eyes and his voice were still full of strength and subtle malice.

  Thank God, Cloudia did not inherit this.

I hoped.

  “Not the one you use to introduce yourself to others,” he continued. “I do not want the lie; I want the truth. The one you gave to my sister’s granddaughter.”

Cedric could not help himself and flinched.

“My servants are my ears and eyes in a world I cannot explore on my own anymore. However, they can only see and hear, not observe and listen. They also do not speak a single word of English; I always make sure they do not. Certain words are not meant for the ears of many.

“So, tell me, what is your name?”

“How do you know that ‘Kristopher Underwood’ is not my real name? Why don’t you assume Cecelia Williams is lying about her name?”

“I do not have to assume anything: I know that both your names are not your real ones. In her case, she changed it upon marriage. You have never officially changed your name; you illegally bear a name that is not yours. ‘Cecelia Williams’ is her name now; ‘Kristopher Underwood’ has never been yours.

“I know the names of all who have arrived yesterday except yours. I know that Wallace Underwood never had an heir, but I do not know who you are. However, seeing you in front of me now, I have a suspicion. My servants described your appearance to me. Say, when was the last time you have washed your hair?”

Cedric groaned.

  Yes, he was definitely related to Cloudia.

  “It is such a pity,” the Marquis said, “that you are neglecting it so much – your impressive silver hair.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want your name. I already know enough – why are you still hesitating, son?”

Cedric took a deep breath and looked him into the eyes, but the Marquis did not look into his. “And what is yours?”

“I,” he spoke, “am the Marquis.”

  He was giving me an aneurysm.

  “I am not quite sure why I am even here – don’t you want to speak to Cloudia? She is your sister’s granddaughter, as you have said, and you have never met her before. Don’t you want to talk to her?”

“I have told you what I want.”

Cedric sighed. “Marquis, why are you so fixated on names?”

“Names hold power, son. They hold power and contain stories: of marriages, of favouritisms, of adoptions, of great tragedies, of love and joy and sadness and many more. I have always had an interest in stories. ‘Duke Kristopher Underwood’ tells me the story of how you met my grand-niece and came to work with her. What does your real one tell?”

  Something told me that, if I were to try to escape, I would find the door locked or the corridor full of ready servants – or both. The windows would be unbreakable; the walls impenetrable.

This château had been built to protect its inhabitants from the outside world, and what was to be a safe haven could easily become a prison.

  “My name is…” His heartbeat grew faster. “Cedric Kristopher Rossdale.”

The Marquis smiled. “As I have expected: another tragedy. And such a sad one. Rossdale is such an old name.”

Cedric sucked in his breath. “Now that you got what you wanted, tell me where the Clockmaker is. That’s the main reason why you have called me, isn’t it?”

“I have never said such a thing.”

“But that’s the reason why we are even here!”

“But not the one why you are here. You have come to tell me your name.”

Cedric clenched his fists. “Can’t you give me the location anyway? We do not have much time, and I am already here.”

“I will give out this piece of information when the time is right and I will only give it to the right person. This is not now. This will not be you.”

“If this is all, can I go now?”

“Nobody shall hinder you, son.”

Cedric turned around and when his hand touched the doorknob, the Marquis spoke again.

“People grow into the names they are given or take. I have not always been ‘the Marquis.’ For a brief time, I had been someone else. ‘The Clockmaker’ has not always been his name either: He grew into it when it was given to him.

“Amélie told me that my grand-niece is calling you ‘Undertaker.’ When do you think you will grow into that name?”

  ***

  I could not stop thinking about my conversation with the Marquis.

Dinner had passed and, afterwards, we had all retreated to our rooms. Most were already asleep. Only I turned back and forth, unable to fall asleep myself.

Cloudia had still been pondering over the murder case at dinner; if she had not, she surely would have noticed that something was wrong with me. Of course, I would talk to her about it – just not now. Now, it was time for me to process the conversation myself. Now, it was time for it to haunt me.

Something greatly unnerved me when I thought back to the meeting, but I could not put my finger on it. It was on the tip of my tongue but I could not taste it.

It was horrible.

  With a sigh, Cedric rolled out of his bed. This night, sleep would not find him, and he would not find sleep. At least, he hoped to find some peace while wandering through the silent corridors.

Cedric lit a candle and grabbed the clothes he had worn during the day, and when he shrugged on his jacket, a bundle of papers fell out of it. Frowning, Cedric picked them up and unfolded them. My dearest Not-Kristopher… it began and he cursed under his breath. When had Cecelia put the papers in his pocket?

Cedric was about to scrunch them up and throw them away when the word Milton caught his eye. His heart beat faster.

  This was the summary of what Cecelia had learned about Milton.

I should not read it. It was a breach of privacy. I liked Milton, did not believe that he could hurt a fly, let alone be a smuggler. And still, there was his file in my hands…

No, it was not right. Who knew what was written in there? Nonsense, I guessed. It came from Cecelia after all. And still…

And still…

  Cedric shook his head and put the papers on his desk. He adjusted his jacket and went to the door, but right in front of it, he stopped.

For a minute, Cedric lingered there, staring into nothingness, and then, he turned around. With sure steps, he walked to the desk, sat down, and smoothed out the papers.

My dearest, Not-Kristopher, I hope that you are aware that after you have read these papers, you have to tear them apart and burn them in different fireplaces…

  ***

  Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843

 ~Cloudia~

 A chuckle came from behind the door. “How amusing for Simon’s daughter to come to visit me,” said Oscar Livingstone, former Met detective, now incarcerated Yard Ripper.

  My heart beat louder in my chest. So I had been right; it had been true.

  Cloudia took a deep breath to slow her heart again; in the empty corridor, it sounded so loud in her ears, and she did not want her excitement to be so obvious.

“How exactly do you know my father?”

“Is that all you came for?”

“No, but it is a beginning.”

“I have no reason to answer any of your questions.”

“You would not even do it for the sake of friendly conversation? Your voice sounds rough – nobody talks to you, right? I must be the first one in about six years to start a conversation with you.”

For a while, it was completely silent behind the door, and then, Oscar said, “Simon and I worked on multiple cases together. His partner was gone for two years, and during that time, I was Simon’s primary aide. We worked together later as well, but not as frequently.”

“That was a surprisingly long answer,” Cloudia remarked.

“Is that everything?”

  Now or never, Cloudia.

  “As you know, my father died nine years ago,” she recited the words she had rehearsed all the way to the asylum. “He died under very mysterious and perplexing circumstances. Until today, nobody knows what happened, and Scotland Yard has long ceased its investigation.

“I was there when my father died, but I lost all my memories of it under similarly perplexing circumstances. This is haunting me every single day – this uncertainty. Barrington does not want to tell me anything, and Father’s other Aristocrat of Evil is in America where I cannot reach her. There are not many people who were close to my father, and when I found your portrait in Father’s sketchbook” – Cloudia held it out even though Oscar could not see it – “I worked to find out who you were.”

“And it did not stop you from coming here when you did.”

She nodded. “It did not. It only added yet another riddle for me to solve. And now, I have found you. You were friends with my father…”

“I would rather describe our relationship as ‘close acquaintances’ or ‘colleagues,’” Oscar interjected. Apparently, it had not taken much to revive his joy for talking.

“… You knew him better than many others, and I thought that because of this you could help me find out what happened.”

“I am not exactly capable of helping you right now,” Oscar said.

“This is not a problem: If you agree to help me, I will get you out of here. I have a letter personally written by the Queen which says that, if I want to take you with me, you are free to go. Even your servants will be released.”

Again, silence fell inside the cell.

“If I am to help you, you will help me as well.”

Cloudia frowned. “I will already help you get out of the asylum.”

“But does it not benefit you as well? Finding out the truth about Simon’s death is a part of the bargain that is solely for you. I want one as well.”

“Wasn’t Father your… your close acquaintance? Are you not eager to learn the truth too?”

“Curious I am, but I am neither as haunted by it nor as invested in this matter as you are. Not finding out the truth will not steal my sleep.

“Don’t you believe in balanced deals? Why should anyone agree to a deal from which only one party benefits?”

  He was not in a position to discuss this with me. By any means, I should be leading this conversation, but I did not. He was right. Who was I to demand something and not be willing to return the favour? Who was I to assume that anyone would agree to this?

But was it really wise to have to owe a favour to the Yard Ripper?

  Cloudia took a deep breath and pressed the sketchbook close to her, holding on to it as if it was her anchor.

  I hoped this would be worth it.

  “Very well. If you agree to help me, I will help you too.”

“You will not ask any questions or back out?”

“I will not ask any questions or back out. I promise.”

When Oscar spoke again, Cloudia could hear the smile in his voice and she wondered how it looked like.

“Then the deal is done, Lady Phantomhive.”

“Then the deal is done, Captain Livingstone,” she replied, uncertainty and utter relief and joy warring inside of her.

“I will go and tell the warden to release you,” Cloudia said, but right after she had taken the first step back to where her guide had left her, she halted. There was a question she should ask; one she should have asked before and had to do it now even though it did not matter anymore. She had already given her word.

“What is it that I have to help you with?”

“Do not worry about it. I will tell you when the right time has come.”

[caranfindel]

Recap/review 14.04: “Mint Condition “

THEN: Michael's gone. Supposedly. Dean feels bad. Ghosts are a thing. Salt circles. Monster Kaia's magic spear.

NOW: A comic book/collectibles store. The camera pans over a variety of figurines and memorabilia, including a poster for the movie Hell Hazers, which you may remember from Hollywood Babylon, (thank you, Continuity Fairy!) and briefly pauses on a poster for the movie All Saints' Day before showing a television. Someone's watching Shocker TV, showing scary movies "24 hours a day, all week long." We see clips from Route 666 and that movie they were filming in Hollywood Babylon, whose name escapes me, as well as from a movie we will eventually find out is All Saint's Day. Cut to a guy unpacking a box of collectibles under the watchful eye of a long-haired freak right out of All Saints' Day. I keep waiting for this guy to realize he's being watched, but I am the one who eventually comes to a realization - that's not a guy, it's a statue.

The guy unpacks a box and literally drops it in shock. Because it's haunted, right? No, it's just a Thundercats collectible figure Panthro, in its original box. (No one in my house knows anything about Thundercats, but I assume this is a real character.) He stuffs the box in a backpack, and then his phone rings. The incoming call is a video call, which is weird, because people this age don't even call each other, let alone via video, but it makes for better television, so we'll let it go.

The caller is a girl named Sam, who is apparently his boss. She immediately starts berating the guy for his bad customer service, which resulted in a negative Yelp review. He promises to do better and confirms that she's coming over for game night. Stewart picks up his bag and a set of keys on a Batman keyring and locks up the store, under the watchful eye of the creepy statue.

(Boy, this is a lot of recap before we even get to the title card...)

We see Stewart at his house, arguing with a pizza delivery place. Panthro is sitting on a table and he turns and looks at him. It's surprisingly well done, BTW. Stewart turns to see Panthro on the floor, gets closer, watches Panthro swing his mace, and then screams.

Title card!

Bunker. Dean's lying on his bed, eating pizza and watching Hatchet Man: All Saints' Day, which is a gloriously cheesy salute to the 80s. Well, I'm glad he finally got a TV in his room, but does this mean the Fortress of Deanitude is no more? Is it full of refugee hunters now? Aw, that's sad.

{Sidebar: I wonder if this movie is called All Saints' Day because they knew the episode would be shown on All Saints' Day, and were being meta/clever? Or is it just supposed to be a riff on the Halloween franchise?}

Sam comes in and asks what he's doing, and when Dean looks up, he's shocked to see the Beard of Despair is gone. "Why are you so surprised?" Sam says. "Obviously, judging from my glorious scruff, it's been a few days since I shaved. Have you really not seen me in a day or two?" (No, he doesn't really say that.) But Dean says "it's so smooth; it's like a dolphin's belly." And it's not. It's really not. And as much as I love the scruff - which is quite a bit - I'd also like to see Sam's pretty face smooth as a dolphin's belly sometime. Just sayin'.

Sam (still) wonders if Dean's okay, since he hasn't really come out of his room in a week, which I guess explains how he missed the Big Shave. Dean expositions that Cas is "showing Jack the ropes," because if Jack wants to learn how to be a hunter, there's no better teacher than Cas, right? Absolutely no one. And with Monster!Kaia and Michael "in the wind," and his home full of strangers, Dean apparently figures he's got nothing better to do than hole up in his room watching Hatchet Man movies. (Is Hatchet Man the franchise, and All Saints' Day just one of the titles? I'm having trouble getting a grip on this.)

He knows Sam doesn't get it, because Sam doesn't even like scary movies. "Our life is a scary movie," Sam points out. And speaking of which, he's found a case. He shows Dean a YouTube video of a bloodied Stewart describing his Panthro attack, and I wish I could take credit for this catch, but I saw it on Tumblr... look at the left side of the screen. The "Recommended for You" videos are about zombies, a conspiracy theory, and how to clean your sink, which are all very interesting, but look at the "Up Next" video.

IT'S A FUNNY CAT VIDEO. HAS SAM BEEN WATCHING FUNNY CAT VIDEOS?

Oh, Sammy knows just what he's doing, and I love him for it. He's all, we don't have to take this case involving KILLER THUNDERCAT TOYS if you're not interested, but he's got Dean exactly where he wants him.

His smug little face at the end of this scene gives me life.

Guys, I was so ready for this. A MotW, and Sam giving Dean a hunt he knows he'll enjoy just to help him kick his Michael blues... This is the show I'm here for!

The guys show up at the comic book store dressed like absolute dorks, in short-sleeved shirts and ties. Sam has a pocket protector. I don't know why. But it's single-layer Winchesters and I'm gonna embrace it. Looks like this episode is happening on Halloween and not on All Saints' Day, because they're accosted by costumed children outside the store. Dean comments that Sam still isn't a fan of Halloween (which we've known ever since the pilot; thanks again to the Continuity Fairy). Sam confirms.

Apparently this red mask is a character Jensen voiced in an animation? And of course Jared was in House of Wax. Pretty deep meta here, Show.

BossLady!Sam is there, wearing a red plaid shirt, and Dean comments that she's like Sam's twin. "I don't know what you're talking about," Sam says, as he and BossLady!Sam tuck their hair behind their ears in sync, and I die.

That’s me, in a puddle on the floor.

“Soft, delicate features," Dean points out. "Luxurious hair. She's like your Wonder Twin." All of this is true, Dean, and good on you for noticing that your brother has soft, delicate features and luxurious hair. Sam notices a guy stocking the shelves - black All Saints' Day t-shirt, shortish spiky hair, lollipop just like the one Dean snagged at the door - and says "if that's me, then that's you over there."

Dean's distracted (and delighted) by the Hatchet Man statue, giving him the name David Yaeger. {Sidebar: did you know the word jager means hunter in German?} His doppelganger encourages him to push a button that plays his catch phrases from the movie, including "we all do bad things sometimes." Which is, like Dean's motto. Dean's joy is infectious and adorable.

BossLady!Sam finishes her business with the police and asks what she can do to help the guys, offering "Funko Pops, Magic cards," and given the number of Supernatural Funko Pops decorating my office, I'm pleased with that shout-out. Sam asks about Stewart as Dean asks about vintage Hot Wheels, and Dean, I am very sad to inform you that Hot Wheels apparently never made a 1967 Chevy Impala.

The guys introduce themselves as Ian Gillan and Ritchie Blackmore (Deep Purple, The Husband points out) from Campbell and Sons Insurance (hee!), wanting to speak to Stewart. Presumably not about Hot Wheels, unless he got run over by one. They'd gone to his place, but his roommate said he moved out. Or got kicked out. BossLady!Sam explains that Stewart is an "acquired taste" who makes a lot of online enemies, and he can be found at his mom's house.

I still don't understand why the guys are dressed like nerds. Is it a Halloween costume? Because we've seen them as insurance agents before, and they were wearing regular suits.

Mom's house. Mom puts a couple of mugs on the table - one is a superhero (Flash, maybe?) and one is decorated with cats - and announces that Stewie will be up in just a minute. Dean reaches for the superhero mug, even though it was placed in front of Sam, but the joke's on you, Dean, because we now know Sam likes cats! But more importantly, Dean has added a pair of black Clark Kent eyeglasses to his getup. WHY? I mean, it's hilarious, but WHY?

I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON HERE.

We hear Stewart pitching a fit in the basement. He stomps upstairs and sees the Winchesters, and I know the guy in the store was supposed to be Dean's avatar, but this guy is wearing a RED SHIRT WITH A SQUIRREL ON IT. COME ON .

Truly a Red Shirt of Bad Decisions.

We learn that Sam is aware of Fortnight, and Dean notices the smell of burning sage. Stewart explains that he dated a goth chick who told him it would bring good luck, but he broke up before they could "merl." Dean's as confused as I am about "merl," but Sam explains it's MIRL - Meet In Real Life. Dean asks how he knows what that means, and Sam very quickly changes the subject. And this opens up all sorts of interesting possibilities, doesn't it, regarding Sam's online activities and his knowledge of MIRLing, and that would certainly be an entertaining rabbit hole to go down, and I hope some of y'all indulge in that, fic-wise or meta-wise or whatever. I look forward to reading it.

Anyway. Sam asks about the Panthro attack, and Stewart jumps in to say he made it up. When Dean presses, he gets mad and kicks them out of the house and then we cut to an exterior shot and WHAT THE FUCK? NOW DEAN HAS A TACKY CHECKERED BLAZER? It's like he's slowly turning into Matt Foley from SNL. At some point in this episode he's got to say something about living in a van down by the river.

Dean refers to Stewart as "Big Bang," which reminds me that I meant to ask, when we first learned his name, if he was a shout-out to Stewart the comic book store owner on Big Bang Theory. {Sidebar: Would this be a reciprocal shout-out, since that show has a character named Kripke? Is there a connection I don't know about?} Given Stewart's Wiccan girlfriend, they think the toy might have been under a spell, and they decide to check the house for hex bags later. Although I don't know how she would have left any in the house, since they never MIRLed.

Later. The guys are sitting in the car, still outside Stewart's house, when a little lumberjack and vampire walk by. Look, it’s Dean and Benny!

Sam’s instructing someone to use lamb's blood and "stay safe," because he's still Chief, Dean, whether you like it or not. Dean asks "seriously, what is your deal with Halloween," and "don't give me that 'every day is Halloween for us' crap." It's kind of odd that he doesn't already know. I mean, we already know. His life is Halloween. And his mother died two days after Halloween. {Sidebar: Is it just headcanon, fueled by fanfic, that John got blind stupid drunk every year around the anniversary of Mary's death? Or is that canon?} The conversation is interrupted when Stewart's mom leaves the house, and the guys have to duck - toward each other - to avoid being seen. It's ridiculous and hilarious and I love it.

Dean could have just taken off the Clark Kent glasses.

Sam suspects Stewart changed his story because he's being brutally mocked online. And he won't say the word bitch. Is this something we can't do now that we're airing at an earlier hour, Show? Then Stewart comes out of the house, bloody and screaming for help. Dean goes inside, gun drawn, and follows a trail of blood to Stewart's man cave (um, boy cave?). As he gazes at a Texas Chainsaw Massacre poster, he hears a chain saw, which hurtles into the room and barely misses his pretty head.

Hospital. Stewart's mom, still in costume, sits at his side and thanks the guys for saving his life. She wants to go home and get his favorite pillow, but they convince her to stay. "Everything's fine," Dean tells her. "Everything is not fine," he says to Sam, as they leave the room. He says he swept the room for hex bags and found nothing, but the EMF went crazy. So it's a ghost. Hey, guys, you should have watched the "Then." We already knew that. Dean is going to stay at the hospital and keep Mom from going back to the house, while Sam asks around to see if anybody "got dead lately."

At the house, Sam finds the light switch in the Den of Stewartitude doesn't work, even though a lamp and computer monitors are turned on in the room. He laughs at himself for being startled by the Panthro toy and says "nice, Sam, smooth," and for some reason this just almost makes my heart burst open. The toy isn't putting off EMF now, which he finds odd. Then he looks at one of the monitors and sees a group photo of Stewart, LadyBoss!Sam, Dean's doppelganger, and an older man.

Back at the hospital, Dean's doppelganger is standing outside Stewart's darkened room. He is wearing an army green canvas jacket and has acquired some scruff of his own and he's just such a precious little mini Dean; I can't stand it. He asks what Dean's doing there, and Dean says he's just keeping an eye on Stewart. "He must have awesome insurance," Doppelganger says. Which is very funny, and also very Dean, because he says "awesome" so much. I love it.

Dirk explains that Stewart is a jerk, but he's his best friend, and he's there when Dirk needs him. They eat pizza and watch movies and who else does that, my friends? You know who. Then the guys bond over their love of scary movies, and it looks like the franchise is actually called All Saints' Day. I'm sure you were really dying to know. Stewart comments that no hospital would ever be that empty, and Dean says he's been to a lot of hospitals at night, and "trust me, it gets pretty empty," and at first that's just heartbreaking because I figure he was at these hospitals because John or Sam were injured. But maybe he's just thinking about hunts in hospitals. (Again, I need to differentiate fic-fueled headcanon from actual canon.) And then Dean says he likes to watch movies "where I know the bad guy's gonna lose" and yep, my heart is definitely broken.

Sam shows up at the store and asks BossLady!Sam if anyone close to Stewart has died lately. She explains that Jordan, who used to own the store, was kind of a Willy Wonka to her, Stewart, and Dirk (Aha! His name is Dirk! Which is close to Dean, and hasn't Dean actually been called Dirk before?). He died and left the store to BossLady!Sam and Dirk. Not Stewart, because he fired him twice for stealing. But she hired him back because he's a friend. It seems like Stewart has better friends than he deserves. She tells Sam that Jordan was cremated, and then we see something frosting over behind her.

Sam is adorable, trying to look casual as he pulls out his EMF meter and it lights up like a Christmas tree. He tells her it's a carbon monoxide detector and she needs to leave. He starts to tell her she's in danger, and then the David Yeager statue smacks him into the comic book display and knocks him out cold. Even though he hits it with his back. (Handwave!)

When he wakes up, BossLady!Sam is terrified but unhurt. She gets a quick version of the "monsters are real" speech and finds that the door is locked, and Hatchet Man took the keys. He throws something at the door, but it's shatterproof glass. Apparently Jordan was serious about thieves, which explains why he's so keen on killing Stewart, that Panthro-stealing little asshole.

He calls Dean, who's fanboying with Dirk about horror movies, and tells him it's Jordan's ghost. And the David Yaeger figure is on its way. Dean can hardly believe his luck. He pours a ring of salt around Stewart's bed, having given him the speech, and orders him to stay in it. Boy, it's a good thing they reminded us what salt is for in the "Then," or else we'd be really confused right now.

Store. BossLady!Sam figured out what I did, that Jordan wants to kill Stewart because he's a thief. She says she's been taking money out of his check to pay for what he steals, but Jordan wouldn't know that. Sam breaks his lockpick, and then asks if they have any cleaning supplies.

Hospital. Ghost stuff starts happening in Stewart's room, and Dirk panics and flees. Dean takes a hatchet out of a fire emergency box, even though I think that would probably set off a fire alarm. (Handwave!) Dirk's mom is carrying a tray of food from the cafeteria and comes across the Yaeger figure. She drops her tray and screams, just like the woman in the movie. Dirk shows up and puts on a stern face and tells Jordan that if he's going to kill his friend, he has to go through him. Oh Dirk, you sweet little thing, you're channeling Dean so hard now and I adore you. Jordan does come for Dirk, who says "crap" and runs off. There's a funny sequence where we cut back and forth between Dirk and some hospital guards who are watching All Saints' Day and ignoring the actual mayhem happening on their monitors.

Meanwhile, Sam is mixing drain cleaner and something else in a Scooby Doo lunchbox. {Sidebar: I'm not a Scooby Doo fan, but I love the show's constant references to it and the way the Continuity Fairy always remembers Dean's a fan.} BossLady!Sam asks how he learned to do this, and he says "I had a messed up childhood." It's funny because it's true. He hangs the lunchbox bomb on the door and they hide behind the desk. After it blows the door open, they both slowly peek over the desk and simultaneously say "cool." I'm starting to love Sam and his little doppelganger too.

Hospital. Dirk hides in the morgue (no, Dirk, never in the morgue!) and gets a scary hand on his shoulder, but it's Dean. Then a body on one of the gurneys sits up. Yeah, it's Yaeger.

At this point there's a fake movie promo for All Saints' Day III: The Reckoning. It starts out "Three Years Ago," which reminds me very much of a certain scene that starts out "Twenty two years ago." Looks like David Yaeger was killed in a fire on October 31, 1983, which is two days before Mary Winchester dies in a fire. Oh, you clever, clever show.

Back to the show. Dean gleefully fights the Yaeger figure. At least he's gleeful until it seems he's not doing very well. Sam and BossLady!Sam show up, and she's wearing Jared's coat from the EW Halloween photoshoot last year.

Bless you, Show.

She figures out that Jordan must be attached to the Batman keychain. Meanwhile, Dean is cornered, and about to get axed, when precious little badass Dirk stabs Jordan in the back. It doesn't kill him, of course, but it gives Dean a chance to get up and start losing the fight again. The Sams run in and BossLady!Sam figures out that alcohol will help them burn the keychain faster. Whoosh! There goes Jordan, and the statue falls lifeless to the floor.

Aftermath. The guys tell Dirk and BossLady!Sam that everyone is safe now. The Impala scene starts with Dean thanking Sam for "giving me a win." Sam asks him to stop hiding out in his room. "What happened with Michael, you said yes for me, for Jack, for your family. You did the right thing." He says nothing Michael did afterward is Dean's fault, and he needs to stop blaming himself.

"I'm never gonna get over it, okay?" Dean says. "I'm just not." And once again, Sam could say "yes, I understand how you feel, because I've been there too," not to make this all about him, but just to commiserate and show Dean that he's not just blowing off his horrific experience, he knows how bad it was and he might have some good ideas about getting past it. And once again, he does not. But that's okay. What isn't okay is what happens next. Dean asks again why Sam hates Halloween, and Sam tells some ridiculous story about having a crush on a girl in sixth grade and throwing up on her at her Halloween party, and you know what? I just refuse to accept this. WE KNOW WHY SAM HATES HALLOWEEN. AND IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH A GIRL IN SIXTH GRADE. I don't know why you're doing this to me, Davy Perez. You're usually so good about canon. I cannot accept that Sam Winchester, whose entire life has been Halloween, whose mother died two days after Halloween, is distressed because of something that happened in sixth grade. I'm going to pretend this part never happened. Who's with me?

Dean says that next year, he and Sam are going to wear couples costumes (and if you happened to be wearing your shipping goggles, I think I heard you squealing). Batman and Robin. Bert and Ernie. (!) Rocky and Bullwinkle. (!!) Shaggy and Scooby. Turner and Hooch. Ren and Stimpy. Thelma and Louise. "We just it in drive and go." {Sidebar: Who wants the show to end that way, Thelma and Louise style?}

Meanwhile, back at the hospital, one of those useless security guards finds the Yaeger figure in the morgue. The guys left it there? Oh well. It's a good horror movie ending.

So! For the most part, this was just what I needed after three episodes of mytharc. A good MOTW with lots of humor and nods to canon. On the other hand, there's that one thing. But since I'm ignoring that one thing, I guess this was a fantastic episode! What did you guys think?

Please help me stay unspoiled, thanks!

[antiquechampagne]

Chapter 28 - Sleep Walking

The rest of the trek back to Goodneighbor was unusually silent.  Payne found her mind playing the whole disastrous return trip over and over as they avoided super mutant patrols and raider nests. Not only was she worried about how much damage she had caused with Hancock confidence in her, but rehashing her past had dredged up old baggage she thought long since buried. She started to second guess every interaction with him, over analyzing her word choices, how he reacted to her.

She adjusted the new knife strapped to her thigh for no particular reason, trying to break herself free from her intrusive thoughts. The long elegantly curved blade extended from below the wrist, ending in a viciously pointed tip. She found a deeply scratched “D” in the handle when they made a pit stop, wondering what significance the letter might have had.

Fahrenheit met them at the door to the Old State House, ushering Hancock in with a disgruntled look, several papers in her hand.

“No rest for the wicked!” Hancock shrugged before disappearing inside.

Payne took her leave, needing to clean up after the trip. For the next week, she went through the motions: guarding Hancock, patrolling, even half-listening to Magnolia sing in The Third Rail. She found her mind under assault by random memories at random times that clung to her and spread like a poisonous vine.

Walking back to her hotel room one morning in a fog, mentally exhausted after a night of slow drinking. As she rounded the corner, she found the Memory Den looming in front of her. She had never given much thought to the wares the establishment pedaled. The past was something she rarely thought about. She found it not worth disturbing the long settled dust… but now? The past pressed up against her mind, bleeding through to the present. Before she had realized it, her hand was pushing open the doors.

Irma looked up in surprise. “Well, good morning to you, sweetheart! Isn’t it a bit early for a social call? Kent’s probably still in his pajamas.”

Payne looked around nervously. “This… isn’t a social call, Irma.” She paused, unsure how to proceed.

“Just last week we paid our…oh.” Irma caught Payne eyeing the closest memory lounger and thought a moment. “Let me go see if Dr. Amari’s up, dear. Give me a minute.” Irma rose from her chaise lounge. “I’m not promising anything. Amari’s pretty stringent when it comes to screening new clients.” An easy smile curled her rosy lips. “At least I know you’re good for the caps.”

Alone, Payne listened to the strange rhythmic humming emitted by the machines surrounding her. She pressed her hand to the cold glass, peering inside. She was contemplating walking out, embarrassed to even be standing in the lobby, when Dr. Amari appeared.

“The memory loungers are complex pieces of equipment. Please don’t lean on them,” chided the doctor. Payne straightened up and quickly removed her hand. “Irma says you’re interested in our services. She also seems to think you could endure the procedure. Reliving memories… can be quite jarring if you haven’t prepared properly.”

“I been in here enough to know the spiel, Amari. I’m not going to live in a pod like Kent. I just want to... see some family I haven’t seen in a long time. That’s all.”

“Memories with people are easier, especially ones with loved ones,” Irma said. “Just focus on them, and you should do just fine.”

“Fine.” Amari said curtly. Money changed hands. “Just sit down in a lounger. Focus on a strong memory while I lock onto it.”

Payne laid down on the plush reclined chair of an open pod. She was glad to see a lack of restraints as the glass dome lowered around her. A television monitor suspended inches from her face, crackling with static and snow.

“All right. I’m scanning the hippocampus now. Good. Synchronizing the temporal lobes…”

“Let the show begin!” Irma chimed cheerfully.

Payne felt the hum of the machine grow louder as her vision went a snowy white.

“We’re almost there. Your memory is loading now.” Dr. Amari’s voice sounded tinny and distant, like she was whispering through a metal pipe. “We’ll be monitoring you.” Payne felt her heart rate jump at the phrase. Why was she doing this to herself? Putting herself in the hands of a doctor, of all people. That didn’t go so great the last time…

“Just relax, please. Focus on the memory.”

Payne forced herself to calm down, remembering the last truly happy time she had with her family.

Suddenly she found herself standing on a sidewalk, a bright blue sky above her head. The gentle rays of the kind fall sun warmed her skin. She could not suppress a wide, genuine smile. In front of her stood the perfect salmon-pink house of her childhood, complete with her mother’s concrete birdbath front and center in their yard. She could detect the delicate sweet smell of her mother’s baking wafting through the air. The house was decorated for Halloween, with black bats hung from the eaves and grinning carved pumpkins on the front porch. She was home!

Payne felt as if her heart stopped. Looking through the living room’s giant plate-glass window, two familiar silhouettes sat, lit only by the movie playing on the television set. She noticed it was her mother’s favorite horror flick, Dementia. And there they sat, her mother and brother, sharing popcorn as they watch their family’s annual horror movie marathon on her birthday. She froze, terrified that if she dared to move, the whole fragile world could disintegrate before her. Tears welled in her eyes seeing the two talking and laughing jovially together. Silently, the shadow of her brother got up and moved out of the room. Finally, Payne broke out of her trepidation and raced up the walk.

As she reached for the door, a single gunshot shattered the bucolic peace of the pristine pre-war neighborhood. Time dilated and stretched. Payne could hear her mother’s blood-freezing scream behind the door. Looking down, bright red blood seeped under the front door, oozing past the toes of her shoes.

“MOM! ADEN!” she screamed, pounding on the door that would not budge no matter how much she pushed. Somewhere close, a deafening claxon began blaring. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how this happened… and yet it was happening…everything, all at once. In the sky, missiles streaked across a darkening horizon, choked with strange glowing green clouds.

“What the hell?” cried the tinny voice, far away from the horror unfolding around Payne. “Get her out. NOW!”

Ignoring the voice, Payne renewed her assault on her front door, cursing in frustration. She had to get to her family, needed to protect them from the horrors only she knew were coming. Her heart pounded in her chest, dread making bile rise in her throat.

Suddenly, Payne felt hands wrap around her arms and begin to pull her away and down the sidewalk. Skeletal figures wearing soiled and tattered nursing uniforms dragged her, their long needle-like fingers digging into the flesh of her arms, dripping glowing green ooze. She kicked and shoved, trying to twist from their ironclad grip. The bombs exploded in the sky. Payne screamed as the whole world went white.

“Just calm down, sweetie.”

She could still feel hands holding her down. In full panic, not knowing where she was, Payne threw off her attackers with a violent shove. Then, she did what she always did. She ran.

__

Kent arrived at the second-floor landing of the Old State House, huffing and panting. The closest guard on ran to his side.

“Hancock…” He puffed. “Payne…”

The noisy commotion brought Hancock out, followed closely by Fahrenheit. “Kent? What’s going on?” he asked.

Still winded, Kent took a deep breath. “Payne went to the Memory Den.” Hancock’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know what happened, but she freaked out…”

Before Kent could finish his sentence, Hancock rushed out the door and into the street. It didn’t take him long to find where Payne had run to. A crowd of drifters and Neighborhood Watch had gathered a cautious distance around a small metal shack at the end of the barricaded street past the hotel.

He stopped next to a watchman. Without having to ask, the man issued a report.

“From what I hear, Payne ran out of the Memory Den like a bat outta hell. Never saw anyone move that fast… but she’s holed up in Randy’s shack there. Blocked up the door and screams if anyone gets close. Thank God Randy wasn’t in there when she busted in… They says Irma’s pretty banged up. Amari’s helping her out right now. We’re not really sure what to do next.”

Hancock clapped him on the back, a wordless thanks. “Wish me luck.”

“What? Boss… you can’t go in there!”

“Don’t worry about your old Mayor. Did you forget I have a silver tongue?” He popped a Mentat in his mouth. “A little extra boost couldn’t hurt, either.”

Hancock strode through the crowd. He stopped to ask an onlooker to borrow a sack hood hanging from their waistband before walking up to the small shack. He peered through the spaces between the table and bed that had been hastily thrown into the doorway. He could see Payne pressed between the wall and a tall dresser. She rocked as she rubbed her arms, her head down and eyes pressed closed.

Quietly, he asked, “Payne?”

“GO AWAY!” she roared in response, not even looking his direction.

“Come on, Payne. It’s me...” Something glass shattered as it hit the upturned table, so close to his face he had to brush a few shards off it. He thought for a moment.

“Dahlia?” he offered, almost whispering. Payne stopped rocking. “Dahl, listen to me. It’s Hancock. All I want to do is talk.” She slowly turned her head and finally looked at him, her eyes squinting as if she was trying to focus on something far in the distance. Her face was red and angry, burned by her run into the daylight. He carefully moved some of the furniture aside, mindful to reduce any noises that might startle her. Walking into the one-room shack, he stopped as Payne tensed up.

“Alright, I’ll just sit right here until you feel like saying something.” Hancock sat cross-legged on the dirty floor and watched her, a calm and patient expression on his face.  This wasn’t the first time he had talked someone down, though normally it was from some drug-induced haze. He studied her as she anxiously watched him. He wasn’t sure if she was actually seeing him at first. Her eyes darted all around the room, following unseen phantoms. Eventually she squirmed so that she faced him, still wedged partially in her protective corner.

Finally she asked timidly, “Hancock? Is that you?” She scrutinized his face. “Are you really here?”

“It’s me, sunshine. Looks like you’re in a bit of a bad way.” He didn’t move as she tentatively stretched out her hand to gingerly touch his knee. She found it solid and unwavering, firm in its existence in time and space. Some of the tension released from her shoulders.

“Where am I?” She put her hands to her temples, the specter of a claxon reeling in her ears. “When am I?”

“You’re in Goodneighbor. It’s 2287. The bombs fell over 200 years ago. Specifically, you are squatting in Randy’s place… well, what’s left of it. He might not be too fond of your redecorating the place.”

Payne looked around the disheveled room, frowning as if seeing it for the first time. She hung her head between her curled up knees. “I fucked up pretty bad, didn’t I?”

Hancock scooted closer, resting his back on the wall next to her. “Nothing an apology or two won’t amend.” Hancock remembered the one time he had run afoul of Amari, spilling a full bottle of vodka on one of her machines. “Maybe caps, too. That helps.”

An uneasy silence settled between them.

“What happened in there?” he cautiously ventured. “I didn’t really peg you as a Memory Den kinda gal.”

“I…” Payne choked on her words. She had no idea how to formulate what had happened into a coherent thought. Nothing made any sense to her. She started again. “At first everything was fine… I was in front of my mother’s house, but then…” Her mind stumbled. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “It was like the most horrific nightmare you can imagine, tailor-made for me. Everything happened at once… my brother shooting himself… the bombs falling… the nurses pushing poison into me.” She folded in on herself again, hugging her body desperately.

“I’m sorry. I messed up,” she whimpered. Hancock could see tears well in her eyes. “I just… I just wanted to see them again. My mother. My brother. I wanted my last memory to be a happy one… not…” The words caught in her throat.

Payne found Hancock’s hand unexpectedly on top of her own. Instinctively, she curled her fingers around his, clinging to his steady presence.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Even dream girls have nightmares sometimes.” He smiled weakly, and to his surprise, Payne returned the gesture.

“I suppose so,” she said. “At least the air raid sirens have stopped.”

Hancock gave her hand a gentle squeeze. To him, she seemed over the worst of it. “I think you might want to see how Irma’s doing. I heard you roughed her up a bit right before your impromptu ‘hide-and-seek’ session.”

“Oh shit,” Payne spat and stood up. She was a bit shaky, but moved towards the door.

“Hold on. You’ll need this.” Hancock tossed her the sackcloth mask. She nodded in thanks before slipping it over her head. They carefully put as much of Randy’s possessions back where she had found them.

“Time to go mend some fences.” Payne stepped out into the daylight with Hancock.

The crowd murmured. A sallow-looking man trudged out of the throng.

“Nothing better be broken in there!” Randy huffed.

Hancock pressed a few caps into his palm. “Get yourself something nice, okay?” Payne raised a hand in protest. He waved it away. “You’ve got bigger fish to fry. Let me handle this one.”

Back inside the Memory Den, Payne removed her mask gingerly. Kent rushed up to Payne’s side as soon as the duo entered.

“Oh my god… Are you okay, Payne?” he asked, worry tight across he sinewy features. “You gave us all quite a fright.”

“Kent, I…” Payne started, but as she looked up, the sight of Irma reclining on her chaise lounge with her arm wrapped in bandages and suspended with a crude sling arrested her thoughts.

“Irma!?” she started to rush to her friend’s side. Dr. Amari, kneeling next to the memory lounger Payne had been using, glared at her. Payne slowed her steps as she drew close. “What… did I do?”

“You damn near ripped Irma’s arm off!” Dr. Amari exploded, pointing an accusatory finger her way.

“Now, Amari, stop being so dramatic. I’ll be fine… unless you think your bandaging isn’t up to snuff.” Amari huffed. Irma turned back to Payne, wincing with the effort. “You pack quite a punch, gal. When you threw me off and ran, I landed badly. Amari says I broke my collarbone and pulled some ligaments.” A pained look passed over Payne’s already downtrodden features. “Hey now, I knew it was risky grabbing you while you were in there… in the state you were in.”

“I’m sorry, Irma. I’ll make it up to you, somehow.”

“Don’t worry about me, dear.” Irma cooed.

“Irma might let you off easy, but I certainly am not. Look at what your little ‘brainstorming’ session did to the lounger!” Amari still knelt beside the machine.

“I’m sorry. I will find some way to fix this. I’ll get the caps…”

Dr. Amari was keenly examining the egg-like glass dome of the pod. Large spidery cracks radiated out from a single point of impact. “How the hell did you manage to crack nano-carbon infused industrial safety glass? It’s not like I can just put in an order to get a replacement shipped here!”

Payne just stood looking at the floor. She had nothing she could say or do, so she did nothing at all.

Finally standing, Dr. Amari turned to face her. But Amari’s anger seemed to cool slightly upon seeing the silent pain written in Payne’s down-turned eyes and ridged frame. “But we’ll figure out something.” Amari’s analytical eyes scrutinized Payne’s rosy complexion. “What happened out there? You’re as red as a boiled mirelurk!”

“I’ll be fine.” Payne mumbled.

“No. You need a thorough post-procedure examination. From what I saw on the monitors, your hippocampal and amygdalar synapses lit up like a Christmas tree. Cross firing and mistiming like that could cause extreme neural fatigue! I need to make sure you aren’t suffering from a stroke or some other kind of brain injury. Just give me a moment and I’ll perform the tests.”

Payne stood stone-still. Dr. Amari waited for some kind of answer or response. None was forthcoming.

Hancock cleared this throat and put a hand on her shoulder.“Payne?” he cautiously ventured.

“No.” She didn’t even move her head. Amari looked confused, unsure how to proceed.

“Oh, come on, honey. Amari will use her best bedside manner.” Irma tried coaxing her.

Payne seemed rooted to the spot.

“Right…” Hancock remembered. “No doctors.” Amari’s nose wrinkled, offense blooming on her cheeks. Hancock put a hand out, waving Amari to give him a moment. “Payne?” Her eyes shifted to him. “Would it be okay if stay with you? I’ll make sure nothing goes south, watch her the whole time. You won’t be alone.”

Amari gave him a sideways look and almost dismissed him, given there were already several people in the room, but Payne’s posture began to relax.

Payne thought. After a few seconds, she nodded. She quickly added “No needles.”

“What?” Amari balked.

Hancock shot her a quick irritated glare, screaming ‘get on board, sister!’ with wide black eyes.

“Gah, fine. No needles.” Amari motioned to a lounger. The muscles in Payne’s jaw tightened. “Of course… no chairs too?” frustration saturated her words.

Hancock pulled over a disused folding chair. “What about this?”

“How do you expect me to diagnose anything if I can’t even check for proper brain function? I can’t wave my hand over her head and see an fMRI!”

“No needles and no loungers. Take it or leave it.” It was clear Payne was not going to budge.

Dr. Amari threw her hands up in. “What a waste of my time. If you drop dead of a hemorrhagic stroke, don’t blame me!”

Hancock unfolded the chair. Payne gingerly sat, her palms balled in her lap. A grumbling Amari pulled out a battered doctor’s bag, pulling equipment out on a nearby computer bank. She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Payne’s upper arm. Hancock watched as Payne looked away, her eyes wide, darting around the room as she fought to stay in the chair. Her hands clenched, kneading her thighs.

“Sit still, please,” ordered Amari.

Hancock leaned against the boxy metal mainframe. “Hey!” Payne looked up into his mischievously sparkling eyes. “What did the necrophiliac say to his girlfriend?”

Payne scrunched up her face. “What?”

“What did the necrophiliac say to his girlfriend?” he said again.

“How the fuck should I know?” Annoyed, Payne blinked as Amari took a light and looked in darting eyes.

“I really dig ya!” Hancock snickered.

It took a moment, but a weak smile broke Payne’s frigid features. A few scrawny laughs broke through her fear-heightened panic. “That’s a horrible joke.”

“Yeah? How about this one?” Amari brought out a small hammer, tapping Payne’s knees and elbows. “A ghoul walks into a bar. The bartender tells him ‘We don’t serve ghouls here!’ The ghoul says to him ‘That’s fine. Is the human fresh?’”

“Jeezzzus!” Payne shook her head. “Don’t quit your day job. Stand-up doesn’t suit you. At least not with those dad jokes.”

Amari stood up and addressed them. “From the little I can tell, you are okay neurologically… but your blood pressure is sky high.” She looked to turn away, but returned to face Payne, her severe eyes a bit softer than before. “If you ever feel like you might be able to stomach a proper examination, come back.”

She paused again.

“You know, everything experienced in the Memory Den is kept strictly confidential.” She finished cleaning up her tools.

Payne mulled over the exact import of her words. How much did she actually see in those monitors?

“You should go get some rest, and that is my professional opinion. Whatever happened to you in the lounger, it put you through the wringer.”

Author Notes: This is my first beta read chapter. I hope I can start improving my writing. Be patient, but I hope it will be worth it!

[daniolden863360-blog]

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[betweensceneswriter]

Second Wife-Chapter 8 : The Gentleman of Leisure

Second Wife Table of Contents

Second Wife on AO3

Previously - Chapter 7 : Never Forgotten Laoghaire had wanted Jamie as long as she could remember. 

“’You told me then that should I be arrested and executed, you would have Masses said for my soul for the space of a year…But if I should lose an ear or a hand while doing your service—'

‘I would support you for the rest of your life.’ Jamie was unsure whether to laugh or cry, and contented himself with patting the hand that now lay quiet on the quilt. ‘Aye, I remember. You may trust me to keep the bargain.’

‘Oh, I have always trusted you, milord,’ Fergus assured him… ‘So I am fortunate…for in one stroke, I am become a gentleman of leisure, non?’” (Outlander, 69).

     “Milord!”  The voice had changed and deepened in the many years since Jamie had first recruited the little pickpocket in Paris, but he’d recognize the lilting French accent anywhere.  Jamie turned to see the distinctive mass of brown curls and bright blue eyes of his young ward, as Fergus dismounted from his horse and came toward him.

     Fergus had a large pack on the back of his horse, and as he approached Jamie with a question on his face, Jamie already had a distinct idea of what the request would be. 

      “Milord, I would not wish to trouble you, and you have already done so much for me.  You are barely established here at Balriggan, and just newly married…” Fergus seemed to be spending as much time on the preliminaries and justifications as he was planning to on the request.

      “Out wi’ it, Fergus.  Ye shouldna feel worrit about askin’ me for anything.”  Though Jamie’s tone was gruff, he seemed genuinely pleased to see Fergus again.

     Fergus sighed.  “Do you imagine you could find work for me here at Balriggan?  You had only just returned from England when you married Mistress MacKimmie.  I know you might be fine without my assistance, but I miss seeing you, and they already have so many men and boys at Lallybroch, and I thought, with the time for planting arrived…”

     The young man was quickly enveloped in a bear hug, the red curls and brown blending for a minute.  “Aye, Fergus, I can use your help.  I’m fair glad you’ve come.  Here, let’s take your things inside and get ye settled.”

     Jamie had assumed that Fergus would be quickly welcomed as a part of the family at Balriggan.  He was sadly mistaken.  From the instant Laoghaire saw Fergus enter their house carrying a valise, the chill in the air was palpable.  She took to banging the pots on the stove more loudly than necessary, and when they sat to the table for supper, though Jamie and Fergus had made themselves useful and both cleaned up before the meal as well, she wrinkled her nose at them as if they disgusted her.

     Joan had no such qualms.  She found Fergus’s accent enchanting and his hook intriguing.

      “Yer like a real pirate!” announced Joanie, excitedly gripping the hook to look at it closely.  “Ye only need an eye patch and a parrot, and a tri-corn hat, and maybe a beard, with glowing firebrands in it…”

      “Joanie,” Jamie said, smiling, but trying to shush her with a small shake of his head.  “Fergus hasna ever been to the West Indies.”

      “But if I had,” Fergus announced with a grin, “I am most certain I would make an excellent pirate!”

     Though Fergus’s response delighted Joanie to no end, Jamie saw that Laoghaire was stewing, the set of her jaw a dead giveaway that they would be having a mostly one-sided discussion later in their bedchamber. 

     During the meal, Marsali was quiet, shyly spending more time gazing down at her food than taking part in the conversation.  Jamie had noticed some marked changes in his step-daughter since she had begun her courses a month or so prior.  The thirteen-year-old girl who used to willingly tromp in mud barefoot without caring about the state of her skirts, climb trees and run madly around the farm, play sword-fighting with Joanie with some long sticks, was now spending an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror in the morning, brushing her hair.  She took more care about her garments, and she seemed to pay attention to the interactions between Laoghaire and Jamie, which made him very nervous.  She should not be learning how to be a wife from her mother.

     Marsali’s form was changing, too, whether because she was being less active, or just because she was now a woman.  She was a bonny young lass, who would make some laddie a good wife.  In three or four years, though, at the very earliest, once she was 16 or 17.

     What disturbed Jamie slightly at the dinner table was that he also noticed a strange alertness in Fergus.  Though Marsali’s eyes would not often fall on the young Frenchman, his were on her quite often, and it almost seemed as if he watched especially for her reaction when he told them all stories about his part in the Rising or helping Jamie in his spying escapades in France.

     Once Fergus was about to mention Claire, and Jamie desperately caught his eye and shook his head; fortunately the young man noticed and turned the story in another direction.  Unless Jamie was prepared for the discussion tonight to enter the realm of death threats, Claire’s name must not be spoken.

     Laoghaire did once direct a question to Fergus.  “So, ye’ve been to Edinburgh, then?”

      “Oui,” said Fergus.  “I’m not really cut out to be a farmer, so I’ve looked into different trades there.  There are shopkeepers and excise men, printers and blacksmiths; importers, tavern owners, lawyers.  I haven’t decided what I want to do, but I do intend to make myself a living.  I’m vingt-neuf, ah, twenty-nine years old?  If I wish to marry, I must make a fortune first!”

     Marsali colored briefly, looking up in surprise when Fergus mentioned his age.  He wasn’t like the young Scotsmen she was constantly surrounded by, big and braw, tall and muscular.  He was fine- featured and slender, and he did not look as old as he said.

     “If you find a job in Edinburgh, will you also find your wife there?” Laoghaire asked pleasantly.

      “There are many young ladies in Edinburgh,” Fergus responded.  “But I believe there are none so bonny as your daughters.”  He grinned sidelong at Marsali, who blushed and focused on the last piece of tattie she had on her plate.

     Jamie looked alarmed, and Laoghaire, furious.  Fergus glanced back and forth from one to the other and quickly decided he should make his excuses and turn in for the night.  Considering how the evening had gone, Jamie thought it best to set Fergus up in the loft over the stables instead of in the main house.  Laoghaire had seemed so angry already; he did not want to risk an explosion.

     As he helped make up the bed for Fergus, Jamie sighed deeply and began to speak.

      “I dinna ken if I really saw what I think I did at dinner.  But I must say to you, Marsali is thirteen, Fergus.  Now, I’d trust ye with my life, but I willna trust you wi’ my daughter.  I canna make it more clear than this.”  He looked straight at the young Frenchman, meeting his eyes directly.  “Keep your hands off her.”

     Fergus impishly lifted both forearms in the air, showing one hand and one hook.

     Jamie shook his head in good-humored disgust.  “If ye dinna listen to me, lad, you may end up wi’ one less hand, ye wee Frangach.  Keep yer hand off her, and yer hook.  And yer lips.  And yer wheedling eyes.  And yer sweet talk.”

     Fergus shrugged his shoulders and smiled.  “I will do as you say, milord.  Marsali is lovely, but I do not see her in that way.”

      “Good.  Just remember, Fergus.  Yer a man, and she’s a bairn.  And her ma will kill you and will never forgive me if ye do anything with Marsali at all.”

     Leaving Fergus with a decanter of their best whisky, Jamie headed down the ladder and into the house, steeling himself to meet his fate in the bedchamber with Laoghaire.

       “You’ve put him in the stable?” Laoghaire asked, as Jamie entered their room and closed the door.

      “Yes, Laoghaire,” Jamie responded.  “Though he should be staying in the house, I have put him in the stable.”

      “He should not be staying in the house.  We’ve got two daughters,” Laoghaire insisted.  “And he’s the bastard son of a French whore, who grew up in a whorehouse.”

     Jamie’s eyes told Laoghaire she was treading on dangerous ground.  “My da was a bastard son, Laoghaire.  A child hasna any say about where they are born or who their parents are.  Fergus is a good lad, and I’ve kent him for twenty years.  He hasna lived in a whorehouse since we met.”  Jamie didn’t persist any further, as he knew that while Fergus hadn’t lived in a whorehouse in all that time, he may have been to one, if the tales Wee Jamie and Rabbie had told him were true. 

      “If I dinna want that Frenchman here, ye canna say he can stay,” Laoghaire fumed.  Even in her anger she couldn’t stay still.  She was straightening quilts and folding clothes as if her life depended on it. “This is my home, James Fraser.”

      “’Tis it now?”  Jamie asked casually, his jaw twitching.  “Seems to me that one of the marriage vows is ‘With all my worldly goods, I thee endow!’  This place is as much mine as yers now.  I’ve worked this land plenty.  I’ve made our home a better place.”

      “Ye ken what I mean, and you know it, James Fraser,” she said, glaring.  He always knew he was in trouble when she took to calling him his given name.

      “Yes, I ken what you mean, but I also know who Fergus is to me.  He’s the closest thing to a son I have in my life.” For a split second, Jamie thought of Willie, but Willie didn't count, obviously.

      “But he’s not your son, is he?” Laoghaire asked, shaking out the feather pillows from atop their bed.  She couldn’t see the way Jamie was clenching his jaw in response, or she might have reconsidered her words.

      “Your girls arena mine either, now, are they?  But I love them as my own,” Jamie insisted.  “I’ve known Fergus longer.  And I vowed to support the lad, if ever he was wounded in my service.”

     Laoghaire sniffed scornfully.  “And because he was foolish and taunted the British and lost his hand, you’re bound to him for life?”

      “Fergus lost his hand drawing the Redcoats away from my cave and you ken it, Laoghaire,” Jamie started to raise his voice.  “If it werena for the lad, you wouldna have a husband at all.”

      “A husband!” Laoghaire scoffed bitterly.  “How can you be called a husband when ye dinna respect my wishes, and ye dinna love me?”

     Jamie took two fierce steps toward Laoghaire.  “How can I love ye, when ye willna even let me touch ye?”  His eyes were fiery, his body expanding in his anger.  “When ye willna let me kiss ye?!  Yer always sayin’, ‘Oh, Jamie, ye shouldna touch that.’  ‘It’s filthy’.  ‘Ye canna kiss me there’.  ‘Oh, ye shouldna put yer hand on that!’”

     Laoghaire’s face was crimson, and she was nearly hyperventilating as she faced him, her fists balled at her sides.

      “You’re heartless and cruel,” she screeched. 

      “I’m heartless?  At least I tried,” said Jamie, shaking his head and glaring at her.  “Yer the one who willna let me near ye.  Yer the one who has made this room as cold as a prison!  I’d rather sleep on the floor of a cell in Ardsmuir!”

      “Well…well, yer a lecherous beast!” Laoghaire said accusingly, her lips quivering.

      “A lecherous beast?” Jamie rolled his eyes scornfully.  “Now there’s a lie if ever there was one.  I am no lecher… In fact, I dinna ken if I’m even capable of a respectable cockstand anymore.  Yer such an icy bitch, ye’ve rendered me a eunuch!”  With his final words, he flung the bedroom door open and stomped down the hall, leaving Laoghaire to melt into a puddle of self-pitying tears. 

On to Chapter 9 : Better to Marry than Burn Jamie had to feed his hunger somewhere...

[alphacrone]

TW: one not graphic description of a wolf catching and eating prey, a dog abandoned in a car (but isn't hurt)

On AO3

When Jack awoke, he was in a strange bed in a strange house.

This would have worried him more if his head hadn’t felt so fuzzy, but, as it was, all he could focus on was the unbearable ache in his bones, the weakness of his breaths. There would be time to worry when he could remember more than his name.

The bedroom door creaked open and a man peeked inside. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said, so softly Jack could barely hear him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Bad,” Jack grunted, struggling—and failing—to sit up. The man hurried across the room, hands outstretched. Jack watched those hands as they pressed against his chest, easing him back down onto the pillow. They were beautiful hands, tanned and bruised and strong—he could see the muscle in them, the rough strength. Jack let himself be tucked in by this strange man and his lovely hands. “Where am I?” He remembered to ask as the man lightly touched his forehead, checking for fever.

“The Coop,” the man said, voice louder now. “If you mean specifically, you’re just outside Syracuse. We found you tangled up in our fence. Big drinker?” He asked, voice both amused and concerned.

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. He immediately regretted this as the room began to spin violently. “Been sober two years.”

“Well, something made you wild last night,” the man said matter-of-factly, smoothing down the quilt that covered Jack’s naked torso. “But we’ll worry about that later. Are you hungry? I’ve got breakfast cooking downstairs.”

“No,” Jack said, a little too gruffly. He wasn’t hungry, despite it being late morning, and even felt full, the sickly kind of full that came from eating too much and too richly. “Water?”

“Here, Ransom left a water bottle on the bedside table after they carried you here.” The man grabbed the dented, metal thing off the table and handed it to Jack, who felt thirstier than he ever had in his life. He chugged several mouthfuls before the man said, “Slow down, you’ll be sick.”

Jack did slow down, and after the burn in his throat subsided he asked, “Who are you?”

The man smiled and extended a hand. “Eric Bittle, at your service. The boys call me Bitty. And you are…?”

“Jack.”

“Well, Jack, I suppose you aren’t from around here. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

Jack took another sip of water and thought hard for a moment. “I was visiting a friend. And then I was travelling- Blue .”

Eric looked startled. “Blue?”

“My dog,” Jack hissed. He braced both hands on the lumpy mattress and pushed himself up, grunting in pain as every muscle and joint in his body screamed in protest. “She was in my car- we were driving- I need to find her-”

“Jack, Jack,” Eric gripped Jack’s shoulders and struggled to hold him still. “You are in no state to go looking for Blue. I’ll send the boys out, we’ll find her. Tell me what we’re looking for.”

Jack described his car and his dog, anxiety tightening in his chest like a screw. Everything hurt, everything shook, and all Jack knew was that Blue had probably spent the night trapped in his car alone and afraid and very, very cold.

“You sit here, I’ll round up the troops,” Eric said. “Don’t worry, we’ll find her. Drink water and lie back down, okay? You need rest.”

Jack did as he was told, but only very reluctantly. Eric slipped from the room and Jack could hear voices from downstairs. Then a door opened and slammed somewhere, and outside a car rumbled to life. Jack could hear the crunch of gravel beneath wheels, the soft, sock-padded steps of someone walking up stairs, even the creak and groan of the mattress under his infinitesimal shifts and movements. He took a slow, deep breath and tried to relax, despite the wave of fear now crashing down on him.

Eric came back into the room holding a plate of toast. “Rans and Holster are out looking for Blue now. I’ve texted Shitty and he and Lards’ll go looking after the market. We’ll find your baby girl, don’t you worry about it.”

“Why am I here?” Jack asked, frowning. “Why not just drop me off at the hospital? Where did you even find me?”

Eric shrugged. “Rans is a paramedic, he thought you were fine, apart from the cuts and bruises and dehydration. You didn’t show signs of alcohol poisoning, or any sort of aggressive or self-destructive behavior. Maybe it was a bad call,” he added, toying nervously with a loose thread on the quilt. “But here you get toast and far fewer needles.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “But where-?”

“Like I said, you were tangled up on our fence,” Eric said, face darkening. “You’d tried to crawl under, like the coydogs do, but passed out and got stuck.”

“Eric,” Jack said, voice growing thick. “I don’t- I don’t drink. I haven’t touched anything- anything like that in years. What...why can’t I remember what happened? Why was even here?”

“I don’t know,” Eric said softly, brushing a piece of hair from Jack’s brow. “But we’ll figure it out. Maybe we should take you to the doctor today. That bite on your arm isn’t looking too good, maybe it’s infected.”

“Bite?” Jack frowned. “The little nip I got from Ken- my friend’s neighbor’s dog? I thought that had scabbed over.”

He pulled his arm from the blanket to look at the bite he’d gotten a few days prior. The dog had been scared and it really hadn’t hurt much, so Kent had poured some antiseptic on it and bandaged it up and they’d called it a day. Yesterday, it had been a scab. Today, it looked almost fresh, red and irritated and aching. “Huh,” he said. “Maybe.”

“Try and get some sleep,” Eric said, calloused hand brushing over Jack’s shoulder for a second. “Everything will make more sense when you wake up.”

Jack nodded, weariness coming over him again, and he let himself drift off, the phantom touch of Eric’s hand the last thing on his mind.

Jack was running.

Running, and smelling, and smelling prey, and running, and chasing, and running, and lunging, and tearing, and howling, and-

Jack bolted up in bed, gasping for air. The sheets tangled around his body were soaked through with sweat, cold and damp against his bare skin. His throat hurt, ached, and he shakily reached for the mostly-empty water bottle at his bedside.

“Jack?” Eric rushed into the room, eyes wide with concern. “You were screaming, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Jack swallowed roughly and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Dream.”

Eric moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He was handsome, now that Jack looked at him again, with boyish features and large, expressive eyes. “Bad one, I reckon.”

“I dreamt I was a wolf,” Jack whispered. “I was howling.”

“Full moon’s got you in her grips, huh?” Eric laughed softly. “She does that. Well, I know something that’ll make you feel better.” When Jack tilted his head in confusion, Eric nodded towards the window. “The boys found Blue, asleep in your car. She’s out there now playing fetch with them and Apple and Peaches. Our dogs,” he added. “They already seem mighty fond of her. And the dogs think she’s okay, too.”

Jack laughed, though it hurt his chest. “I picked her up outside Odessa. Thought she was a coyote, she was so thin and dirty, but the vet thinks she’s mostly Blue Heeler.”

“Good companions,” Eric said with a nod. “Ours are pitbull mixes, so I hope she likes to play all day. They’re useless guard dogs, really, but great at playing.”

Relief flooded Jack’s body, loosening all of the tension he’d been holding. “Was she scared?” He asked, feeling even more comforted as Eric scooted closer to fuss with Jack’s damp pillows.

“Yes,” Eric said softly. “And there’s a bit of a mess that needs to be cleaned up properly in your back seat, but she’s eaten and relieved herself on every tree in the yard and is probably very anxious to see you.”

Jack nodded. “I should get dressed and get out of your hair-” He started, but Eric cut him off with an incredulous scoff.

“Oh, no, you are having at least one meal with us, mister. You are clearly in no state to drive, and Miss Blue has to finish her rousing game of fetch. I brought up one of your bags, so you should shower and change, and then we’ll figure out what happened and if you need to see a doctor.”

Jack sighed and nodded. "If you insist," he said reluctantly. 

"I do," Eric said. "And we're having stew tonight," he added as he walked towards the door. "I hope you like beef."

Jack's stomach grumbled in answer for him. "Sounds great," he said, smiling at Eric. 

"Good." Eric beamed back. "We'll get you back in tip-top shape, don't you worry, Jack. You'll see."  

[My incomplete writing masterpost]